


Pattern of Infinity

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: F/M, Post Gauda Prime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 160,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by J Kel</p><p>An enormous 13 part PGP epic that focuses on Avon but introduces original characters and 3-dimensional versions of guest characters from the original series. Rather difficult to describe...written in an interesting, addictive style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Very Ordinary Need

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> These stories were originally posted separately, but have been combined as one fic for the import for convenience and because each has the same summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously published in Input

At which the universal host up sent a shout that tore hell's concave,

and beyond frighted the reign of Chaos and Old Night.

 

\-- John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

 

 

 _"Iacta alea est!"_  ("The die is cast!")

 

\--Julius Caesar (100-44 B.C.)

_And it came to pass in Year 178 (New Calendar), Year 584 (Revised Standard Calendar), Year 2789 (Old Calendar) that the Lord Protector, Minister of Science and Defense, the only man honored twice with the Order of the Falconer for bravery in service to the Federation, was summoned before the Supreme Commander, his knowledge and skills required once more._

He was loved by the masses (the Lord Protector had earned his titles many times over.)

He was hated by the leadership (the Lord Protector had earned his titles many times over).

But even the hated have their uses, and no one knew thatbetter than the First Citizen, the man who killed Blake . . .

Being as Meaning

_Silver contrails etch smoked-glass sky,_

Of a day soon to die.

The city, the plains, and the whispering stars,

Form the grid of interstellar power, these.

And they are his. . .

"To each remember: man is not alone." What a strange sentence to conclude a scientific paper! Yet the man before him had done just that. Nor was the sentence an aberration. The whole body of his later work was in a similar vein. Nor was that all. The man uncomfortably reminded Avon of someone (yes!). But for several minutes he could not explain who or why.

The scientist, Geir, was from the outer worlds. In his sixties, he had an air of nervous energy that would have credited a much younger man. Bald, carefully dressed, there was a crackle of intensity about him, an intensity that never subsided. His eyes were always focused forward, and that Avon concluded as the man closed his presentation was probably the only thing that was bothersome. He looked like he never glanced to the side. He seemed to feel he could be carried forward on the strength of his vision alone and wanted others to be very much aware of that. Of course! Avon knew the type only too well. Such people were trouble. They never left you in peace.

The man had been speaking for nearly an hour. Avon listened but his eyes were on the world outside. It was winter in the Capitol, and winter was for him the most honest of seasons. Winter was a negative universe, and the black and white contrasts in that certain slant of light satisfied a need within him. They formed a starkly simple and reassuring view of existence. An inadequate view to be sure, but why not indulge that feeling of on occasion? From this office he affected the destiny of a hundred billion people over several thousand worlds. That was a simple fact. And it was a fact that the man before him lacked such simplicity.

_Winter Earth. The Central Tower and all it surveyed -- his!_

Bitter winds of ice, solemn plains of snow,

A frigid certainty of sky.

What more was wanted? What more was needed?

Long ago this had been the site of Kalgerry, one of the largest cities of the continent's dominant 20th century nation, the Unlimited State. A popular site, it had been obliterated in both Vesperas. That was about all that was known for certain about the predecessors of Servalan City. But for those who study the past, "facts" filtered through time, eroded through the centuries, were a pleasure regardless of accuracy. Only the dull questioned the details: one can love and doubt simultaneously -- why dwell on the cracks between the emotions? Once there had been cities here. If those cities were ground forever under waves of war, so be it. What was crucial in life was defiance. And in defiance there was a new city. This city would last a millennium. So it had been decreed by the woman who had given it her name.

". . . I therefore felt it of vital necessity that I carry my appeal to the highest levels of the Federation. I understand, of course, resources are limited: 'strained' is perhaps the better word. Things are better since Blake's . . . the Troubles . . . but recovery is far from complete. I believe, however, that as a fellow scientist (Avon wanted to wince, but his face remained impassive) you will understand the importance of this work and why it must be carried to its conclusion." He paused. "You were highly recommended."

 _I always am_. Avon remained silent.  _He talks too much._

He wondered about the man as much as the request. What to make of him? Geir's story was consistent and despite the man's visionary, even mystical, inclinations, he was not a crank. That had been apparent, curiously, even to her, who always before had let him handle such matters, her distaste for science and its practitioners being so extreme. Not rushing to answer, Avon examined the file the central database had prepared. What was there seemed of little consequence.

But curious fact one: as a graduate student Geir had worked with Ensor (a bad sign). In fact, he had worked on an ORAC prototype, then broke with his teacher and went off to do independent research on machine intelligence. There was no explanation for the break, though a personality conflict was hinted at (not surprising). Thereafter he remained out of sight for nearly three decades until the Star One debacle (his world had been one of those under the control of that poorly thought out computer complex) pushed him into prominence as both a scientist and politician. He had been credited with great political skill for his efforts in bringing conflicting factions together to save his home planet, but that thought Avon was going too far. As a scientist he was brilliant, no denying that. But as a politician he was too naive to be anything other than a hack.

Still, you had to hand it to him for persistence. Not many got through the ultra-tight net of security and protocol to present their case to the Lord Protector, let alone the Lord Protector's superior. The man had earned an answer, if not entirely the one he was seeking.

Click. An entry concerning the project code name of "Terminal" replaced the data on Geir. Curious fact two: Geir's interest, indeed obsession, with Terminal.

The "Terminal" file was bordered in flaming yellow indicating the highest security status (i.e., only general information would be available for inquiry, unless special permission was granted). Yet most of the fields were either flagged " **UNKNOWN** ", or filled with question marks, not " ***S*E*C*R*E*T*** ". So why the elaborate security ringing this incomplete, one might even say prehistoric file?

Briefly, the available facts were this: project initiation date (year 105 Revised Standard, about 470 years ago), duration (50 years), and conclusion ("PRESUMED FAILURE", as the artificial planet -- actually a rebuilt asteroid, the project's primary deliverable -- was nowhere to be found). The entry explained that the project had been initiated to integrate several sciences, among them machine intelligence, molecular mechanics, and genetic engineering. It was believed Terminal was intended to yield and/or test a very advanced and complex evolutionary theory or series of them. The origin of the project name was unknown but was possibly a reference to computer "terminal", and early in the project the artificial planet had taken on the same designate. And a planet it was. Its earth-normal gravity (despite a high rotational velocity -- arguing that a Kerr-type black hole of at least earth mass resided at the core), breathable atmosphere, seasonal variations, and ability to support human habitation (barely), ensured it qualified.

Click. A second screen went into more detail concerning the project outcome. Under " **CONJECTURE** ", a frequent database flag where the distant past was concerned, the analysis noted that most information regarding the project had been presumed destroyed in the Atomic Wars, prior to the Second Vespera. No definitive conclusion regarding the fate of Terminal was therefore possible. The planet had vanished from its orbit at the outbreak of said wars -- was it destroyed? This was likely given the interweave of intense mass/energy fields confined in a relatively small space -- doubts had been expressed about its stability. Yet, if Terminal had imploded, there should have been x-ray seared debris throughout the solar system -- not to mention a nasty black hole. Nothing of the kind, however, had ever been detected.

Terminal, the entry concluded smugly, though it likely had existed, was now a myth and certain to remain so.

It was irritating that she had not consulted with him in more detail before this meeting. If something was being hid, this computer could not, would not, help him. ORAC might. But access to ORAC had been forbidden for years. Since . . . Something was wrong, something was missing -- that much was obvious. The implications might prove interesting.

"I am not a scientist, Dr. Geir. My skills lie in recognizing the military value of proposals. As you understand, the Administration frequently receives requests for support and is usually disappointing to the requesters. I am, however, impressed with the body of your work and while I am not yet ready to give a full recommendation to the President, I feel your research laboratories are worth investigating ( _following along the script with me, my love?_ ). A visit for purposes of State and science to your home world is justified, though you understand support cannot be promised at this time."

The scientist looked relieved. Actually, he looked like he was going to shout. Instead, Geir let out a sigh.

"My Lord will not regret his decision," he said, dropping each word with measured relief, "I assure you that once you see the progress made on controlling the morphogenetic field . . ."

Avon waved him to silence and logged off the network. This job had its problems. One was the way people carried on in his presence, as if they could never bring themselves to state what they really wanted in a short simple manner before such a figure of awe and terror. Yet there was compensation as well. It was good to be able with a gesture to silence almost anyone.

"I will discuss the matter with the Supreme Commander, President Servalan, shortly. Afterwards, a formal visit should be a routine matter for the diplomatic channels to arrange," he said firmly.

Geir nodded but stopped as if he remembered something important. Even knowing his precarious position, he gave the impression of being less than finished.

 _Am I to be spared nothing?_ "Yes?" asked Avon.

"Forgive me, my Lord, I am curious. I have heard that you once met my teacher, Ensor. Is that true?"

Avon hesitated, but there was no easy way to avoid answering. "I'm afraid he was dead before I had a chance to meet him," he answered cautiously. "I can't help you."

The man looked disappointed but nodded in understanding as if he expected little else and was grateful to know the truth. Lord Avon respected that.

"I so hoped you had. I was curious what direction his work had taken after all these years. You were with Blake then, weren't you? Before . . ."

"The 'break'?"

"Yes."

Fact number three: Geir's curiosity about things that could not possibly be relevant. Dangerous things. "For a while. You might say I was unemployed at the time."

"Who was he? I mean, what kind of man was he?"

She knew he was going to ask that! "Blake? As I recall, he was a dull man, Doctor Geir," replied Avon. "I assure you the legend in death eclipses the reality in life. Not meaning to sound callous, but some people are better off dead. He was probably one of them."

Geir rose slowly and continued to pursue his subject as Avon escorted him out (an unusual courtesy, but she had insisted on it -- no doubt part of her continuing program to render his manners commensurate with his titles). "What is death?" the scientist shrugged. "I was curious about him. There was so much I was unaware of -- until Star One, when the universe came crashing in on me. All because of him I'm told. Everybody was talking about him. And you. What did it all mean? I was thinking that having known him, you might attempt an answer."

Avon stopped at the door. "I have always found that 'knowing' a person is one of those concepts like infinity that lacks a bottom. I can't deny spending time with the man, two years to be precise, but I would not say that afterwards I 'knew' him. Perhaps because for most of the time I felt there was so little to know. I apologize for what must appear to be indifference, but life is unforgiving. And some of us," he smiled, "come to mirror that harsh steadiness and cruel sanity of the cosmos. As you say, the universe has a habit of crashing in when we least expect it."

Then Avon added to Geir and whoever else might be listening, "For all his real suffering, I don't believe he ever understood that."

The scientist nodded, bowed slightly, and then hurriedly exited the room.

 

The Ruler of the Last Days

In the center of a large circular room deep beneath the city (Avon was one of the few who knew exactly where) was a white marble desk shaped like a falcated moon. Nearby on a black pedestal rested a rectangular plastic box filled with amber glowing lights. Angled to one side were a bank of screens; to the other a row of communication panels. And to the back a huge display of the human universe: the Federation.

Filling half the room, the deep sea blue display, a three-dimensional matrix crossed with colored lines and dotted with blinkers and symbols, was the font of Federation power. Every star, planet, asteroid, station, and ship was represented. With slight movements of a hand, the controller could track any individual known to the Federation, examine the continually updated data on same, trace that individual back as far as records would permit, and extrapolate courses of action. Under the control of ORAC, it was possibly the most complete, accurate, and perfect database and communications network ever built -- at least known to have been built.

(Behind the marble desk was a woman dressed in white. A woman who, like the display, possessed a beauty cold and austere, sublimely pure, without appeal to weakness, and capable of the sternest perfection.)

For three years Servalan and her technicians had labored on the network. And now ORAC, more or less grudgingly, was in service to the Federation (more precisely, its most well-known representative), just as it had once, more or less grudgingly, assisted Blake. She spared no effort and certainly no expense in completing the network. Another individual who had also, more or less grudgingly, assisted Blake, once joked to her about the enormous cost of the database. If she ever left Servalan City, he told her, she would not be invited back. But she did not laugh.

There was reason for her lack of humor on this subject. This is Servalan at maximum power, true. A "mathematician of the soul" (she liked the phrase), she could wipe out a planet on the basis of a calculation, true. (Though had not done so since Auron.) Yet this was the room she seldom left. As the source of power, it was as much psychological as real. Here she could keep the demons of the time distant. Here the cool face and the black hair were safe.

Partly because of lessons learned about leaving positions of power physically vacated. Partly because of a waning desire to yield to the public responsibilities of her position. Partly because the business of power was never finished, she remained here. Except for sleep, she seldom ventured outside the room of central control. For someone who knew power as both abstraction and ultimate physical reality, there was no need to go anywhere else. And more to the point, there was nowhere else to go.

Though the tension never ceased between them, she remained convinced that her choice of "number two man" of the State had been one of her finest decisions. And the man standing before her, the man who had once been an enemy second only to Blake, in turn had accepted her triumph. He would survive -- that was always his first consideration. The days of rebellion were over.

The people were exhausted; their greatest need was for peace. With the most notorious symbol of resistance verifiably dead, their broken morale had given her at last the freedom and total power to act. Luck and fate, good and bad, and not a little guile had brought this oddest of couples together. It was up to him to make the best of it.

As counselor, Avon guided her in expunging the most odious aspects of Federation rule and she was receptive to his advice. She consulted him regularly and seemed to trust his judgment on many subjects. She was not in the least concerned about the unhappiness of some regarding him and felt no embarrassment in having him by her side. It was almost as if she were flaunting him. She spoke of fate and destiny and love, always love. She said it was good to work with a man skilled at hastening the natural course of events.

She reformed the system of prison planets by essentially abandoning them -- henceforth, prisoners were now to be kept on Earth in model camps (for "humanitarian" reasons, she said. He knew the word to her meant only increased control).

She dismantled the most onerous aspects of the Federation's command economy. The results were as good as she could have hoped: tax revenues increasing, the fleets rebuilding (now nearing full strength once more), and a populace willing to give her time.

The Troubles were over. There would be no reoccurrence. Resistance had been reduced to negligible levels. Remaining opposition would be corrected where possible, crushed where necessary. So it was decreed. Together.

So it was for those years that Avon's will and hers -- (always hers) prevailed. Together.

(When they touched, stars fell . . .)

They would reminisce, if that is the proper word, about "before". Not that they were comfortable now with the past, far from it, but it seemed the sort of thing that one should do now that the new order was established and accepted. She would talk at length (in the early morning she could go on for hours): sometimes remembering the terror of the Galactic War, but usually it would be about the "necessity" of Auron's destruction (he would listen, saying very little) and the final chaotic months before Gauda Prime. But she was reluctant to say anything about the gap between those two events. Once she told him that in every victory there is a defeat but would not elaborate.

The past was to be wiped clean to admit her glorious future -- on that she was emphatic. If anything was to be retained, it was only the "gift", the captured letter she gave him. But the rest (especially Blake) was to be forgotten.

 

In fairness to her, there was much he too wished to forget.

Only Auron remained to separate them. He did not understand her obsession with the Auronar, the dread and fear that was always with her. It seemed that the annihilation of Auron had been as much a psychological turning point as her triumph at Gauda Prime. She viewed that "alien" race as unfinished business. She loathed their culture and science with a passion that defied all reason. She even blamed Auron biotechnology for bringing back "Blake". Nonsense on the face of it (she herself knew that Blake had never been within 10 lightyears of the planet), yet she seemed to truly believe it.

Her first decision after regaining the Presidency had been to order Auron burned from space -- it had been under permanent quarantine, but that was deemed insufficient.

Her feelings about Aurons were forbidden territory, never to be entered. He obeyed the prohibition. He never raised the subject; never objected to her ravings on the matter. Yet she seemed to know when it was on his mind. In the middle of a completely unrelated subject, she would suddenly speak of making that lava-coated cinder planet a "monument". Or she might launch into a tirade about the Auronar being a race that should be "extinct". She spoke of isolating them further (their so-called Community in Exile was already restricted and confirmed on all Federation worlds) so that revenge would be impossible.

There would be further measures, but what she would not say. It was odd her preoccupation with Aurons when the Empire of the Black Shield was an infinitely greater danger.

 

 _The Black Shield was an immense_ object _\-- there seemed no other way to put it -- a sphere of diamond foam, ten light-years in diameter, having the mass of over a hundred galaxies. For a billion years it had drifted through galactic space, its inhabitants unknown, watching, and waiting to strike -- or at least so the Aurons said._

Yet she was indebted to the Black Shield. She had obliterated Auron thanks to a modified version of their "space plague" that Blake had saved her from. But from what little was known of the dwellers of the Black Shield, the debt would be called in. In response, for while she trusted Aurons on nothing else, she did give their warnings credence, she had ordered the Black Shield to be surrounded by orbiting anti-matter mines.

 

As a life, perhaps it was not so bad. She used him; he accepted it. She would never risk losing him, of that he was certain. He was her most visible symbol of triumph. He was the human face of her power. He was the hope of the Federation. And when he was among the people, as he was increasingly these last few years, he was the warning of a time that few dared think about.

Poor Avon! How he dreaded the visits among them. The price one must pay for even the illusion of power. But she insisted to her advisors (and to him) that it was good the people favored their new "leader" and while she did not understand (neither did he) why they viewed the man with the black and silver cape as one of their own, it hardly mattered. As long as it did not get out of hand.

He waited. She ignored him. The usual.

"You did well," she said finally, looking up. "What do you think of our visitor?"

_What is being hid this time?_

He answered cautiously. "A competent scientist. It's difficult to gauge the value of his speculative writings, but his accomplishments are real enough. A strange one though. Why the interest in him?"

She smiled as if nothing could be more natural and obvious. "Why shouldn't I be interested? ORAC tells me that he is brilliant. A rare compliment from our mutual friend."

"ORAC has been wrong before."

She rose from her desk. "That was harsh, Avon. ORAC does quite well when it has all the information." She paused. "Well, almost always. Seeing as I never expected omniscience from it, it remains an extremely useful research tool. Most of the time, I am inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt. And ORAC informs me that Geir's work should be looked into."

_Why?_

She continued, moving gracefully towards the computer. "Do you disagree?"

 _No._  "Frankly, much of what Geir says isn't resplendent in clarity, so forgive me for failing to give an enthusiastic endorsement. This business about a 'morphogenetic field' and his obsession with Terminal is . . ."

"I do forgive you. And I agree that the whole business is bothersome, along with his dreary world and questionable friends."

_It does make sense to you. That much is clear._

Standing beside ORAC, she stroked her fingers along the plastic case. "I have studied him since I was contacted by their embassy. Some of his associates worry me. One is an Auron, but Geir may be unaware of the danger. He is rather naive, isn't he? So many scientists are. Anyway, I want you to meet with his people and let me know what you think, nothing more. Perhaps bring me a 'gift' for observation. You be the judge. Then I'll decide what to do."

She came over to the silent Avon. "You are forgiving as well. I like that in a man," but her face had lost its softness. "Actually, I was rather hoping you would tell me he was a fool. I have had the network track every lead on him, yet I find nothing of substance. He is clean, apparently, though not clean enough. There are rumors of 'disharmony' on his world, would-be terrorist groups, that sort of thing," her face became gentle again. "Maybe your presence will change their attitude."

 _I have that affect at times._  "Are you worried you might be getting more than bargained for?"

She put her arms on his shoulders. "I rather hope we do. I believe you miss my intent, dearest. It is not enough to stop a threat. One must also know what is feeding it. And I don't know nearly enough about this one. Sometimes I think that's the difference between us. My vision is focused on the future; yours on the past."

He looked down at her. "There is much that is intriguing in the past. As our visitor indicates," he paused. "What is the threat?"

Her arms slid off his shoulders. She put her head on his chest and gently embraced him. You never were good at taking hints. "Dear Avon, so cold. I will tell you later." She pulled his hands around her. "Kiss me."

He did, but her face showed disappointment. She sighed. "So much goes in," she said, touching his lips. "So little comes out. I worry about your love at times," breaking the embrace. "Are the years dimming your need for me? Or is something other than the physical troubling my Lord Protector?"

He studied her. Warning shots fire in the distance. You know what's bothering me. "I would like to know more. I am not indifferent to whatever danger Geir may represent. But I am curious about your new found interest in science."

She looked up again at the monitor. She shrugged and spoke as if giving a lecture to a dull student. "It's a matter of Federation, therefore it interests me. Shall I pull rank on you? I hate to do that, but I will. Really, Avon, what else is there to say?

"Do you know Geir was quite thrilled about the chance of meeting you?" she went on. "Says his real interest is locating Terminal, but I doubt that is the whole of it. You remain a romantic figure, even to a scientist. I think there is a little of the hero worship I find so touching. "

_This is bad._

"And my hero as well. The Federation is more secure than it has ever been. How long since Gauda Prime? Seven years? Time flies, doesn't it? Think of what I have accomplished with you by my side. My internal enemies are liquidated, my rule is unchallenged, the last serious incident occurred years ago. And he is but a memory, if a bad one. My companion," she stroked ORAC again, "informs me of so much of interest -- if not everything I want. And I have you. But I am not happy."

She made a sweeping gesture to the display. Then she angrily faced him. "I'm worry about you. I need you, Avon. I need your insight and your energy as much as your loyalty. And lately I have begun to suspect I am not getting them in the quantities necessary for our mutual survival. There are fears, expressed by some, not me, that you might . . . revert." She hesitated, not quite seeming to have the right words. "That should concern you."

"It does, though maybe not for the same reasons."

"And what are those reasons? You should trust me more." She was exasperated.

"I recall you once told me trust is good, but control is better."

"I am glad you remember that. I worry about your memory as well. Sometimes it is too good. But control is not always possible to the extent I would prefer and this appears to be one of those instances. I have this feeling that something is missing, that something is very wrong. If true, and I trust my feelings, it could be bad for us."

"I will do what you will," he said, sounding more resigned than intended.

"Then we will discuss this no further. Wait, there is one more thing. I know you don't like doing this, but I must insist. It is an order. You will go armed."

"Why? I will have guards . . ."

"Yes. Of course." She was getting quite irritated. "There will be guards. Do you have objections to one more defense? Avon, I insist. It is an order. Despite your reputation as a quick learner, sometimes it seems to me you have trouble catching on to the obvious."

_Maybe I do not want to understand._

"I am unsure I can kill in anger."

"Then kill in the state of mercy." She paused and drew in a breath, "I spared your life, Avon. Several times. I have never regretted it. I feel deeply for you. You may doubt that at times, but I assure you I never lie."

It is not my problem if some occasionally misunderstand my meaning, she thought.

"For now, you are needed elsewhere. I'll miss you, as always, but this is more important than your usual duties. All I ask is that you be alert; look both ways before crossing the street, all the things a diplomat is paid to do."

 

"I will," he replied. "I appreciate the assurance that you never lie. I never lie either."

_It is not my problem if some occasionally misunderstand my meaning._

"I am aware of that. You will be fine."

 _One last try_. "Did you also know that Geir was going to ask about Blake?"

"Oh.  _Him_." she laughed relieved. "Of course I knew. It wasn't amusing to me, but I thought it might amuse you. You aren't angry at me, are you, for my little surprise?"

"It was the last thing I expected to be asked."

Looking every bit the ultra-efficient executive she was, she said: "That's the nature of surprises, dearest. Someone in your position must be ready for them, whatever they may be."

 

She returned to her desk. "Anyway, good luck on your trip," she said serenely. "I'm sure you will find it interesting."

 

 

Blake

For endless minutes he stands on the starship's observation deck. The low throb of the vessel sounds eerie as it presses against him. He holds a letter in sweaty hands twisting slowly its plastic skin. Preserved and protected for as long as he may live. It is the "gift".

He wonders at the flush of warmth he feels. Somewhere in the black and silver night move the ships of the squadron, but he does not see them. The stars are gone. The dark fog of space like a heavy sea inflows, envelops, overwhelms. What is happening? What is this feeling? He reads the letter again.

 

_Avon--_

Given the situation Jenna and I now find ourselves in, I feel this is the safest though certainly not the most reliable of means of letting you know my plans. I owe you that. No doubt you feel I owe you much more. For once, I will not dispute you. For what it is worth, my recovery has given me time for second thoughts and to make a decision. I needed to do both, as I am sure you will agree. It is only fair that you know what that decision is.

When I began this rebellion, I felt the cause, despite the costs such a struggle entailed, was justified. Freedom is, after all, a very ordinary need and I was certain that by demonstrating its possibility others would join us. The fight would be difficult, to be sure, but the outcome could not be in doubt. I was right to start this rebellion, but I must accept that I misjudged badly the part I was to play. Though I feel my place in history is rightfully assured, it has become increasingly clear that someone else must finish the task I began -- if it is to succeed. Jenna concurs. Should you chose to do so, it is now up to you to continue and complete the struggle.

 

I conclude this reluctantly, but so be it. It is you, or the rebellion is finished. We both know something is wrong, something is missing. We both know you alone are capable of finding and correcting it.

 _For the record, the_ Liberator  _is yours. Your remaining crew are outstanding and you should have little difficulty finding replacements -- if you can learn to trust your people. Like listening, it is something you need to work on._

The odds are we will not meet again.

Sometimes, I must admit, I feel very old. Sometimes, I feel that should peace come, it would not mean much to me unless there was peace between us. But I told you I trusted you, and I meant it. Good luck.

 

Blake

(Underneath, in a different hand):

_Avon--:_

 

Good luck -- you will need it.

J.

 

Avon raged:  _Such endless and insufferable nobility! You would expect that from him and you would never be disappointed._

The letter did not reach its recipient by the route intended. The underground pipeline had burst; the courier was caught. Security at the highest levels was informed. You can guess the rest. A few weeks later Blake was theirs but not Jenna. Realizing the end was near, they had separated shortly before. According to Servalan he was seriously wounded in the capture, but alive enough for Federation interrogators to complete the work they had begun years before. Armed with that information and her discovery of Terminal, she was able to construct an elaborate trap for the  _Liberator_  and its crew. As she always insisted, she had told the truth. She saw the body cremated. She herself strew the ashes to the wind. And though not as cleanly and as swiftly as she had hoped, eighteen months later, the rebellion was most emphatically over.

 

Of Jenna, there had been no further word or trace.

He folds the note. His hand is slippery against the smooth plastic. He puts it back in his breast pocket and continues to stare out into the diamond mist he does not see.

What had happened? Images, memories, dissolve, confused. Why had he led his people into a massacre for a man who could not possibly have survived without him? What had she told him . . ?

("The sector ruler was a butcher as well as a fool. He would have killed all of you given the chance. But he was not easily deposed. My power had not yet reached the point where I could crash in with impunity. I had to be cautious; the timing had to be perfect.

"Something strange was happening on Gauda Prime -- frightening rumors of Blake and a new rebellion. But the rumors, disturbing as they were, meant I had you once again. Arlan was my agent and her orders were to clear the way for my attack. She was to keep you alive and to make certain only Dayna and 'Blake" were dead. Of the others, I did not care . . .")

Troopers surrounding him, closing in, his empty gun raising.

The throbbing deepens. Waiting. She appears. An answering smile. There is a shot, he expects to be hit, but a trooper falls. The warmth increases. There is another shot. Another. She walks to him, stepping carefully, ordering all weapons lowered. The gun is slippery. For a moment she is the only human in the universe. Someone rushes up to her, throws off his mask, demands loudly what she is doing. She ignores him. Closer. The man reaches for his gun; another shot, and the man falls. She takes the barrel in her hand and wrenches the gun from red sweat fingers with strength he cannot resist. She pitches it away.

("I knew for some time you were nearing collapse. We were watching you and you were making incredibly stupid mistakes. You were living on luck and that being the case, it was certain to run out. There were so many signs you were not well. Even you must have noticed, but I never doubted that you would be of great use to me. Remember the first thing I said: 'I love you'?"

 

"The second. The first was: 'Where is ORAC?'")

"It's over, Avon. I win. Finally." A pause. "Where is ORAC?"

No response. The light dims, the throbbing deepens. It is hot. There is screaming down the corridors. She speaks again, firmly. "I love you. It's been a long day. Don't spoil it. I need you."

She glances at the body he straddles. "You are thorough. I admire that."

Finally he moves.

"Now that I have your attention, I am sorry I'm late," she says walking beside him. "I came as quickly as I could. I worried I might not find you alive. But I did hope. Actually, it was more than hope. Let us say I had a hunch. And here you are: a surprise and a pleasant one."

He replies: "I always thought your life and mine were linked."

"More than you will ever know," she says and takes him by the hand.

It is difficult to breathe. He feels light headed. Doors slamming, people shouting, dissolve into a roaring. She leads him out as he yields. Troops, black blurs running across smoking fields. There is redness flowing. Transports beat against the air, soaring. The day is dying in oily twilight. Distant fires glowing.

The throbbing has no source; it pounds from all sides. He stumbles, she catches him. A light breeze stirs his hair. It is good to be alive. Something is burning. It would end this way. She watches him, her hand holding his. Together. "Your a mess, Avon. But we'll get you cleaned up."

Words clog in his throat. "I murdered . . ," then he shrugs.

"No Avon. I did, over a year ago. Remember? It's something we have in common. Sadly, it is you who will get the credit. For purposes of state, that is the way it must be. I suppose one can't have everything."

"Then who?"

"One of life's little mysteries. Nothing more."

The throb merges to a buzzsaw hum. The heat burns. The day is charred black.

. . . He remembers awakening in a white room, cold air circulating about him. He is strapped in, medical monitors surround him. Sensor wires everywhere, some in his arms and legs. There is a strap of plastic on his wrist. It reads "K. Avon", as if someone might have trouble knowing who he is. The sound of engines and ventilation, iron surf of a steel sea, surges. He watches the equipment do its best to analyze and decipher him.

His mouth is very dry. An aging square-faced doctor observes him closely with angry eyes. Security men stand with guns ready. The doctor looks sharply at Avon as he mumbles something. Avon tries to focus, but it is all a blur. The doctor steps back then makes another check of the equipment. He detaches the wires with a sting and orders the guards to remove the restraints. A plastic container filled with liquid is pushed in front of him. Hesitating, he drinks it. The stuff tastes syrupy, slushy, awful. He grimaces. His tongue is like sand, but this is worse. The doctor shoves another one into numb fingers.

"Does this one taste any better?" he chokes.

The man says nothing.

Monitors ping. Tracer lines dance with photon beads and wires sing. But the pounding weakens as does the sting, and the iron surf recedes.

"Shall I to call you in the morning if I'm not doing . . . ?"

The doctor ignores him and speaks to the guards. "He'll live," he snorts, as if that weren't the best news heard all day. "See that he gets his fill of the fluid. Nothing solid until ordered. Watch him closely; assist him as necessary. He'll be weak. Call me at once if his condition worsens."

The door slams. Avon tries moving. Weak muscles, like liquid lead, crawl along his extremities. His neck feels like it has been karate-chopped.

Turning over is a major accomplishment. How long has he been out? Where is he?

Later he is playing a board game with one of the guards.

"You, nurse," he says to his opponent. Though the guards have been as unobtrusive as possible, he is having trouble concentrating. He is losing interest in the game. "Where am I?"

The guard is unsure how to respond. He glances over to the others. He is winning, beating Avon! And now this clown wants a road map! He answers with his best effort at formal seriousness: "Aboard the  _Nimrod_ , flagship of the Supreme Commander, Sir."

 _She has moved back up_. He props himself, drinking some more of the liquid. Sir? And so have I. He is getting used to the stuff.  _Seems good for me. I'm alive and the buzzing is gone._

"Then it isn't necessary to take me to your leader, but I would like to know where I am going."

"Earth, Sir. Her city, the Capitol to be precise", the guard seems surprised he hadn't guessed.  _Of course_.

One of the other guards emboldened by this conversation asks, "You were under Blake, didn't you?"

"I suppose it must have seemed that way at times. If you're thinking of joining up, you're a little late."

"Just curiosity, Sir. You'll be under Servalan now."

Avon smiles, thinking a crude thought. He flexes his arms slowly and rolls over again, finished with the game. "One or the other. You'll have to ask her."

("I worried all the way back to Earth, but I knew you were recovering when I was informed of your irritability and disgusting sense of humor."

"Forgive me, I was out of my mind. I'm normally so respectful of women. By the way, whatever happened to Arlan?"

"My finest, and she lets Vila of all people get the drop on her! What did you think happened to her? She was executed on the spot.")

The guards, apprehensive, watch his every move. He rolls the die, but Avon ignores it.  _I still have the reputation of a dangerous man._

His opponent is unhappy. "You don't want to play any more?"

"Game's over," says Avon, pushing it away, starring at the wall, "I lose."

He believed when ORAC told him of its find. And he believed when he pulled the trigger, repeatedly. The belief of murder would live on, long after the knowledge of his error had been confirmed. What is death? No answer will be attempted here, but for those philosophically inclined towards it being a "natural state", let them take comfort from Avon's hastening of the inevitable for this one individual.

Later ORAC confirmed by molecular analysis that it was the real Blake who had been killed by Federation guards under Servalan's command nearly two years before. ORAC was thus able to recover some dignity from its embarrassing error. It was known there were always distinctions at the molecular level -- even in the case of clones raised in identical environments -- and with the looted Auron equipment it was straightforward to determine who was what, and what was who. But ORAC was not aware of the complications brought about by those molecular subtleties when it had tried to divine the pattern of infinity.

It was a very close match.

All investigations failed to yield any information as to where he had come from or who/what he was.

_Who was he, on that dying day, reaching for me, far away?_

Had Avon in some tortured fashion hoped it was that man? Hope is a very ordinary need and because fools who luxuriate in the emotion seldom concern themselves with just what it is they are hoping for, frequently a fatal one. In hoping, if that is what had happened, he had achieved his most spectacular failure.

_Count on Blake to make a mess of things even when he's dead._

He did not want to think about the others. What was there, after all, to think about? They never seemed real to him, especially during that final year. Well, except Vila. The thief had always seemed too real. He would miss Vila (every other day), but Vila like the others knew the risks and had chosen to follow him regardless. They could have left at any time (space is deep), but they stayed until the end. And in the end were as stupid and as helpless as . . .

Not that he had displayed "conspicuous intelligence" either. Paying their money and taking their chances, it was an old story with an old ending. So be it.

Star lit ashes orbit.

Eternal silence of those who forever died.

She had not lied.

On memory beach, the fog recedes.

In the long night of time, the stars return, winking.

 

Behind him stood Sergeant Beale. She was not a mutoid, creatures long since expunged by Servalan's insistence, but on a bad day she might have passed for one. She was a member of the Special Services, a group totally loyal to the Supreme Commander. The sergeant and her equivalents were always nearby. They served as both a reminder of his power and from whom that power originated.

"My Lord", she asked, "have you reviewed the security arrangements?"

Avon turned to notice her. Ever since this mission began, she had never been far from him. Though used to Federation surveillance, this was unusual in its personal intensity. Perhaps it was her manner. He seldom paid attention to the Special Services, their people were so interchangeable and they were changed frequently enough. This one might be new. "I have.

There are no questions or complaints. Despite the presence of malcontents, it seems safe enough."  _What do you know?_

"In my experience, my Lord, such appearances can be deceptive. In fact, they are frequently the most dangerous."

He eyed her. "Your concern about appearances is noted. I have had some experience with errors in perception myself. However, is it necessary for me to be armed on a diplomatic mission? ( _She won't like it that I keep bringing the subject up._ ) I would have thought that dual teleport bracelets and guards would be sufficient for my safety."

"An additional precaution, my Lord. It is a new policy. As the report states, there has been talk of terrorist gangs. We prefer not to risk your honor."

"That is a new policy. Pity I wasn't informed. How did I manage without it all these years?"

"Weaponry?"

"Honor."

"Attention to honor and defense are vital for all citizens."

"Even for me?"

"Especially the First Citizen."

"By the way, is Geir back on his planet?" He was weary and wanted to change the subject.  _You have no illusions, do you?_

 

"Yes, my Lord. I have been informed that his ship arrived yesterday. He continues to be guarded closely. In fact, we offered to increase the guard on his laboratories, but he objected quite strongly."

 _I can't bring myself to hate you. I'm tired of hating._  "I suspect he finds security arrangements tiresome. I can appreciate that. Well, good Sergeant, carry on. You seem to have matters well in hand. Now please leave me."

"Yes, my Lord," she saluted. "May I add, since these matters cause you irritation, it still remains my belief the Federation could not survive without you."

 _But that is not why you watch me_. He turned away. "I know."

 

She received the call at once. She had been anxiously awaiting it and now it was coming in on one of the private channels. The caller would be very much aware of the value placed upon punctuality. It would not do to keep the Supreme Commander waiting. Beale's grim face appeared on the monitor.

Servalan liked her attitude.

"Confirmation of final instructions requested, Supreme Commander," said the sergeant.

It was a problem of meaning, of communication, Servalan had decided when she began this planning months before. There were subtleties she had seldom experienced, and though she was confident, not since Gauda Prime had she faced such complexity of operations, such delicacy of timing. It was not enough that her Special Services stay ahead of the terrorists. It was not enough that he suspect little. (He knew something was wrong. How much more would he guess?  _Avon_.) Her people should know why they were doing this, but she could not tell them. So much was being risked because of one mistake and no one must know! Fate was giving her an opportunity to correct that error, an opportunity that had to be taken now! She reviewed their reports daily, pleased with the thoroughness, hopeful of the results. The trap was set. Avon was perfect bait. It was a plan of genius, if she dared say so herself. But would it work?

The orders would be confirmed! Retrieve Geir's data and equipment, destroy the site, crush the terrorists, keep the Auron Mykal alive, and by so doing earn his trust. Above all keep the Federation clean!

"Confirmation is given. There is no change in the plan."

"Understood, Supreme Commander."

You had better! She wanted to snarl but was silent. One dared not lose one's manners, even one in her position.

 

"We are now certain," Beale continued, "they will not hesitate to kill the Auron 'Mykal' in their attempt to take Lord Avon hostage. Indeed, they look forward to doing so."

"The Auron." How strange her voice sounded when she said that word, even to her. It almost sounded like "Avon" when she said it. How many times had she been revolted at the thought of saving one of their lives, but it had to be. This Molli (don't these people have surnames!) had to be captured and soon. "I am aware of the difficulties involved in keeping him alive, as well as earning his trust. It was I who stressed them."

Would this business never be over? How many times had she lectured them on each crucial item?

"The Auron 'telepathic' web," she had said, "is a great strength, but if used properly by us it will be an even greater weakness. To achieve that advantage, we must regain their trust to some degree. To that end, the Lord Protector must be with this Auron when the attack occurs. And there must be at least one significant casualty, one that appears to harm the Federation. Suspicion on their part is not acceptable.

She added. "It would be unfortunate if Mykal were to be harmed or were to doubt our intent. He is useful. Do not fail," she had told them repeatedly.  _I see big things in the future for this Mykal._

And how many times had they sworn they would succeed? She should relax. Her people were very good. Geir would be dead soon, and the scientist was far more useful dead than alive. His data was needed, nothing more. ORAC had assured her of that. And ORAC would get it all. No records would remain.

The place and the time of the attack were known -- the surveillance had been most efficient. The ships with the teleportation units would soon be in stationary orbit. All elements were in place. It was ready.

Others would do the killing, but she would have gladly done it herself.

If only she could be confident she had conveyed that feeling and need to her people! How she longed to be there in person directing what was about to happen. As she had once done.

"I admire your audacity and brilliance once more, Supreme Commander."

She was not listening. But she was pleased with Beale. As one of the individuals charged with maintaining Federation security at all costs, to risk her life for an Auron must be both absurd and offensive. Yet Beale never flinched. Beale was also very good at discerning subtleties of meaning.

"And Lord Avon?" they had asked.

"He takes care of himself," she had responded. "As always."

"He will be in great danger."

"He will survive. Trust my insight."

And they did. Beale saluted. But Servalan looking at the monitor could see only Avon's face.

"One final question, Supreme Commander. I observed he was reading what appeared to be a letter. Do you wish me to make a copy of it? Do you wish it destroyed?"

Servalan jolted back to here, now. "It is of no importance!" She struggled to remain in control. She should have told them about that. She regretting more than even giving him that thing. Her voice softened, "It was an act of kindness (which I have truly come to regret). Leave it. Let it serve me as a reminder that one should never be kind. It does no one any good."

"Understood, Supreme Commander."

It was set. It would work. As the future foretold, so would it be.

 

Alone.

Avon watched the monitor, the days recorded events unfolding before him. On an unknown floor, in an unknown underground installation, surrounded by the might of the Federation, guards and force fields protecting against those less enchanted than the average citizen with his presence, he was but a solitary man on a mission, watching and being watched. A simple mission, or so it seemed, and when completed he would return to his home, the world he loved, returned as he had so many times before. So why did his unease grow? (If he had stopped to think about it, one factor might be that he was essentially under a not very subtle form of house arrest, but he seldom thought about that).

The regular programming had been preempted for a special devoted to the Lord Protector. What a show! Cameras followed the golden shuttle descending against a gray misty sky (Geir's world was rain soaked). A sonic boom and a flawless landing. Acres of black-uniformed troops, a spaceport greeting by the planetary president and various high government officials. Some stuff about how glad he was to be here. A weather joke. Everyone smiles, cheers, salutes. The motorcade into the capitol, the streets lined with enormous trees, long branches drooping in sorrow. The crowds were enthusiastic; bobbing faces of genuine affection. These scenes are the most difficult to watch. Posters displaying approved messages: "Avon, Protector and Hero", "Long Live Avon", "Avon Forever", and of course, "Servalan and Avon -- Heroes of Humanity". A tormented sea of placards waving, his face melting in rain drops.

(However, no mention of Blake. Servalan's policy was in full force, even here, though there remained rare occasions in which the Federation still had use for his memory. It was regrettable, but death had given Blake a dignity denied him in life -- as Avon and his employers knew. Avon had seen underground art works seized in raids over the years and Blake always figured prominently in the pictures and amateur dramas of resistance. He had seen a modified version of the ancient play,  _Julius Caesar_ , in which Caesar had been transformed to Blake, and he to Brutus. The teleplay had apparently originated on Lindor, at least they had been blamed for it.

One mildly amusing painting had shown Blake in the Garden of Eden with a woman who could have been Jenna and Servalan as the Serpent. The woman was offering Blake an apple with a particularly repulsive worm peaking out. The worm had Avon's face.)

The crowd faces. The cloud faces in the fog. Would these people ever accept the dangerous reality of the Federation? They had been Blake's Curse -- their needing for a hero to lead them from bondage to some indefinable heaven. Now they were his. They would cry out to Blake one moment and then to his "murderer" the next. What did they want? Why were their needs now focused on a man forever beyond their comprehension? They could see him, they could shout, they could hold on to his picture and wave it about, but they could never know him. (He could hardly be said to know himself.) And in never knowing, how could they care?

What had happened? History had happened, yes, and history is a cruel god. History had crashed them against the reef of time and now battered and dazed they were calling for help. Exhausted at the shores of eternity, he was to throw them a lifeline. What had gone wrong?

 

_Dreams fall grieving: Diaspora._

There had been greatness. There had been the spectacular leap to the stars in the early 21st century, the blaze of human genius at noonday. Yet something had buried the temple of human achievement beneath the debris of a galactic civilization in ruins and stretched across the past a veil of ignorance through which the cause of the disaster could be viewed only in uncertain glimpses.

Vastator and the First Vespera: Dreamtime -- named for the shadows of legends and myths that forever haunt the period.

The First Federation. The rebirth of science and interstellar commerce in the 23rd century -- a common language, a resurgent science, a new beginning.

The First Federation would last for just under two centuries before the Atomic Wars shredded it.

The Second Vespera and the Second Federation. The Troubles, the Galactic War, the Star One debacle: a litany of catastrophe.

 

Time passes weeping.

 

Was the Federation preferable to the chaos of the Vesperas? The past remained a warning without meaning. Warnings would not be heeded if they could not be understood -- there were doubts this Federation could withstand much more.

Blake had misjudged the people's fear of instability (had misjudged at lot), though he had gauged correctly the extent of their need for hope with a human face, even his. Beliefs persisting through centuries were testimony of that primordial longing. But hope is deceptive, treacherous. The waters of hope are gray with mist, turbulent, and bitter to the taste. Blake had plunged in and drowned. As would others, if they were not cautious. And this man retained his reputation for caution.

The official version of Avon's life concluded the program. It went like this: an unhappy youth, but with early signs of genius. Then tragedy: the set up by agent "Bartholomew" as she plotted against the Federation (the narrator assuring viewers that that discredited branch of Security had long since been liquidated). The flight of an innocent man into the clutches of, well, that awful person. Avon reluctantly serving same, desperately trying to soften said individuals's dreadful deeds and turn him away from lawlessness. The many adventures, edited and enhanced where appropriate, culminating in the battle of Star One (". . . whence all but he had fled.") where Avon alone stood between humanity and the Andromedan Evil -- until rescued by the great Servalan.

The "break" now that Avon could take no more. The long search until you know who was found on Gauda Prime. And there, the ever brave and resourceful Avon redeemed himself for all earlier errors by crushing the rebellion -- with the assistance of the great Servalan.

The trial and exoneration; his rapid rise to a position of power second only to the Supreme Commander. Finally, the stirring summation of the life of the First Citizen: friend of the people, loyal, noble, courageous, trustworthy, self-sacrificing, a man of exemplary decency.

That's our Avon.

(Sadly, he could not be given credit for his two "gifts" to the Federation: ORAC and the teleportation system. But the first was unmentionable indeed, and the latter was a State secret of the highest classification.)

The closing scene: Avon dedicating a memorial to those who had fallen during the Troubles. Black and silver banners curl and snap under a blue arch of sky. Granite face, gray cloud hair, Avon speaks to the crowd about whom he now serves, reading the carefully prepared words:

"I declare I do not recall that any public person has ever said to me that there was anything which, for the honor of our arms, or for the credit of the Federation, it would be well to keep concealed. Every citizen has taken it for granted that what is best for the Federation is the truth."

The public statements one must make for the benefit of a certain ruler! Assuage the gullible, confuse the remainder, that was all that was required. One could despise the content, but the necessity of the package remained. Lies had their uses; mankind had never outgrown its need for them.

Would that others in their rectitude had granted him that pardon.

 

 

The Way Back

As was the style in urban planning following the Atomic Wars, key installations were located far underground. So it was via tunnels that the group made its way to Geir's laboratories. One can applaud the prudence of such planning, but over the decades above ground construction had begun reappearing. Even the Troubles had not altered the trend. Underground architecture seemed to lack for most people the attractions it did for the leadership.

The security forces accompanying the group through the passageways halted a distance from the laboratories. There was a difficulty; it was thought prudent to have the situation checked. Avon unhappily concurred. Not everyone was disturbed by the development, however. Geir welcomed it. Beale said nothing.

With Lord Avon were Geir's chief lab assistant, a woman named Kyv, a dozen Special Services guards including Beale, and an Auron named Mykal. As they waited, Geir steered him to the Auron, a young man he had mentioned frequently. Earlier Geir had introduced him to Kyv, but the meeting went badly. The brief conversation clawed on the ragged edge of politeness and went nowhere. Mykal, Geir made clear, would be a happier story. Geir raved about him: ("I must warn you he is a bit direct for an Auron. Brilliant, though. You'll like him."). And as Geir had the two shake hands, it seemed that his hopes would be rewarded. Mykal was eager to meet the great man and harbored none of Kyv's barely concealed resentment. Avon had noticed she seemed to dislike Mykal as well, so wrote it off as a permanent bad temper. Mission accomplished, Geir then slipped away as the two men looked at each other curiously. Again Avon felt something was very wrong. He wanted to get this over with.

"You are a hero to my people," Mykal began awkwardly. "We know what you tried to do for us. We do not understand what happened afterwards, but we hold no bitterness towards you. If you ever seek refuge or forgiveness, the Auronar will provide."

Avon was pained and looked it. Was this why Geir had brought them together? "I am not an object of pity, yours or anyones."

"I did not mean to sound presumptuous."

Avon said what he had said many times before. "Despite what you may have heard, I avoid heroics. Especially of late."

Mykal nodded gravely. Avon studied him. Like many Aurons, hisfeatures were delicate and he looked much younger than Geir had indicated. He had black, intelligent eyes, and a manner that mixed both shyness and pride. Other than that, there seemed to be little remarkable about him. "You did what you could. That is what matters. We are all creatures of bounded rationality and we are, despite our spiritual reputation, practical people, quite accepting of limits -- having so unsuccessfully attempted to circumvent them ourselves. And we know people change. . ."

No response.

Mykal tried another tack. "Did you know Cally is now looked upon as a hero? It was not always so."

Avon felt very old. This was going nowhere. "So Mykal, what brings you to this wet little world?"

Mykal shrugged. "I was part of a trade and diplomatic delegation stranded when Auron was annihilated. We came to help after Star One, but it turned out we were the ones who would need assistance. We have done our best to meld into the society here but it has not been easy. We have had some help -- not extended eagerly, I might add. The local Auron community keeps out of sight and from the start they have regarded us as a source of trouble." He added: "When we left we were told by the Elders of Auron it was doubtful we would return -- how right they were."

 _Perhaps we can get to the point someday._  "What do you have to do with Geir?"

"Dr. Geir is a lonely man, as obsessed types are, and there are not many people on this backwater planet he can talk to. Thus he became curious about us. He helped us find places to live and work as best he could. He is fascinated by our experiments in evolution, which have some similarities to his own researches. It was a difficult situation for us all, so we were grateful for his assistance and aided him in turn. The arrangement bothers some but it makes sense, especially when you're stuck on this planet."

"You don't like it here?"

"Not particularly. We can't seem to escape the suspicions and resentments of the locals. As usual, if anything goes wrong we get the blame -- we are even blamed by some for Star One! The problem is that lately things have gotten worse. One of our people has been murdered and, judging from the note that was left, by a resistance group. To be blunt, I would like out of here."

Avon watched the guards. "So how do you help him?"

"There are, as I say, similarities in interest. Perhaps I should tell you I was a philosophy and economics student, though my degree is in gravitational physics," he smiled. "Some Aurons have difficulty making up their minds. I am interested in the late-twentieth century social thinkers, partly because records of them are so fragmentary -- they are quite a challenge in interpretation. And partly because it seemed they really did have something to say, a few of them anyway, and it seemed a shame that knowledge was mostly lost. Geir agreed. He had similar interests in his youth but was unable to pursue them. His teachers frustrated him, but he never gave up. He is quite the idea enthusiast and we have had many talks over the years.

He even thinks these old writings might hold a clue to what happened. He is fascinated by references to a mysterious technology of molecular manipulation that might offer a unified explanation of what happened. So much of what we know of the past are legends, yet I can't but feel he is on the right track. You must understand Geir is obsessed with what he calls the problem of 'regression'. He considers it very troublesome that every advanced civilization we have encountered is hostile to the point of paranoia and self-destructive. He can't help but feel that something is wrong, is missing." Mykal shrugged. "Who can blame him for trying to find it."

"I suspect a lost is wrong in our understanding. It is by studying the past that we comprehend the present; the present, the future," Avon said bored and becoming anxious.  _That is, we learn which way to run from the future._

Mykal beamed. "That's true. You have similar interests?"

"There is a lot it would be useful know about the past."

Mykal leaped for it. "Such as the dark times we call the 'Vesperas'? That is exactly Geir's interest. You two will get along. They are worthy of study -- especially since we may be on the verge of entering a third."

Avon frowned. Mykal's ability to take the most innocuous of comments and run halfway down the road with it before anyone could stop him was truly amazing. "The Vesperas, yes. Forgive me, but such speculations are unwise, Mykal. A word to the philosophically inclined."

"Intellectuals are used to such caveats. But we sometimes slip. Does such speculation bother you?"

"It bothers some," he indicated the guards.

"Your employer?"

"Encouragement of individual expression has never been one of her strong points."  _Your people should know._

"I would be the last to deny it." At least there was a lack of bitterness in that man that was appealing. Mykal seemed to accept the horrors of the past and hoped only to continue with his life. This a rational man could appreciate. "It is, however, proper to be concerned with the condition of one's society," said Mykal.

"In private. When ordered."

Mykal bristled. "Aurons are pacifists but we do not like being ordered. Forgive me if I have intruded into delicate matters, but one hears rumors of war."

"Never confuse chaos with war, Mykal. They are quiet distinct."

But Mykal went on regardless. "I don't expect you to discuss them, but you should be aware that many are concerned," he said, standing his ground.

(From time to time the two peered down into the dark abyss of trust. It was an uncomfortable feeling for both.)

"There are rumors of any number of things. I advise caution lest one be accused of spreading them."

"Very well. Here is a rumor I would like confirmed and I have never spread it. It is true as a young man you spent time on Auron?"

Avon paused, astonished.  _How could this character possibly have heard of that?_  "I can assure you that is a rumor with no foundation. In any event, you should know that no such statement is ever going to be believed."

 

Mykal swallowed, then nodded quickly. "I see we understand each other. May I continue? Perhaps I misspoke. As a loyal citizen, I admit to only hearing such mutterings, talk of the 'last days' and all. I agree such talk is potentially disruptive; that it invites notions of the leader of the last days, also known as the Mes . . ."

Avon cut him off again. "Forbidden thoughts; forbidden words. You have quite a streak going. As an educated man I am sure you give no credence to such talk and would not discuss it with anyone equally knowledgeable."

Mykal smiled. "You are right of course. I was actually reminded of the old tale that the last days would be such a cataclysmic event, that only the emergence of people with extraordinary powers, able to alter reality itself, would succeeding in holding off final doom."

"I truly wouldn't get my hopes up."

"I don't. It's just that one has to hold on to something."

Avon tried to move on. "You mentioned a family?"

This was an even more sensitive subject. "My surname is Hodos. As is our custom it is not used with outsiders. Allow me to explain. Auron clones do not have surnames, so that probably accounts for the belief we are all that way. For the record, the use of cloning was widespread and growing among the Auronar, but it never constituted a majority of our births. And in the opinion of many of us, cloning is just another dead end and it is well the Federation forbids it. Anyway, I came in the world as yourself, twenty nine years ago."

Avon had already tuned him out. He looked around for Geir, but the scientist and his lab assistant had gone on ahead. Beale remained distant. The guards milled about, no words passed among them. Mykal was saying more about his family but Avon cut him off. "What does Geir want?"

"We would all like to know. He seems driven by things far removed from the traditional domains of science. Legends and myths guide his researches. It is very unclear."

"Fools or visionary? She does not suffer either. Care to comment on which Geir is?"

"Perhaps a little of both."

"That would be the worst possible combination," Avon felt his voice raising. "Let me put it this way. He was insistent that we meet. Why?"

"I have been made aware of certain information circulating about the Auron community," Mykal responded, quietly, hesitant. "Something strange is happening. What, no one is sure, but whatever it is there is a connection with an artificial planet called 'Terminal', an artifact left over from the First Federation. All attempts to clarify what is happening have failed. As for Geir, he wants you to help him locate the planet. And he thinks I can be of assistance."

"'Something strange'? What?"

"Messages. One of our people is getting messages."

"Who? From where? What are they saying?"

"Her name is Molli. She is the second cloned sister of Cally, the only one alive."

Avon didn't move. "I was unaware Cally had a second sister. The Auron reputation for reticence is well-earned."

"Aurons are quite reticent about their 'family', particularly their cloned one. She would have told you only if absolutely necessary, such as in an emergency. Or if you and she had made love. Sorry. As for Molli, I gather she is a singer, a SongMaster to be precise. I know little more than that."

"Can we take this one step at a time? Some woman is getting messages from 'who knows where'? Geir can't possibly believe that."

"I mean only that she is a perfectly normal person who keeps to herself," Mykal said stiffly. "I have no reason to believe she broadcasts lunacy and neither does anyone else."

"Not given to hallucinations or mental difficulties?"

"Was Cally?"

"You mean, if Cally was not, one can argue neither was Molli. I reserve judgment on that. From whom are these messages originating?"

Mykal looked ever more uncomfortable. "It is believed, well, by some, Cally."

Avon looked away. "Somehow I knew you were going to say that. I think a psychological failing is more likely."

"I admit that cannot be ruled out, at least until we know more. By the way, all she says is that the messages are related to Cally. Others have drawn the more controversial conclusion. But if the messages are faked, or the product of a deranged mind, they are inspired fakes and also extremely obscure. I admit it would be easy to dismiss them."

"It would appear so. Why is Geir so interested in these 'messages'?"

"According to rumors, never confirmed, Cally died on Terminal. That adds a bizarre twist to Geir's attempts to locate the planet. If Terminal is what he thinks it is, then it is possible that in some way she is still alive, or has been absorbed into Terminal's computational structure. She would still retain her identity, and yet be something more, something different. That is Geir's belief. I can't comment further."

Avon snorted, "If it were to happen to anyone, it would be her. Cally is not alive," he said flatly.

"What is life?" Mykal shrugged.

"Before proceeding further along the path to enlightenment, Geir believes Terminal is some kind of a computer?"

"Oh, that and much more. He is convinced the planet is a laboratory of accelerated evolution. He also believes Terminal is the key to our destiny, that it will be either the end or the true beginning of humanity and," he added, "its children."

The more he thought about this the more he wondered what shecould possibly want from Geir. "You will agree these ideas are speculative. Why does  _he_ believe they have any basis?"

"Dr. Geir is fascinated by the problem of knowledge. He views knowledge as metaphysical, that the patterns of knowledge not only underlies the structure of the universe but in some way are existence -- that it is a substance, a kind of a thing. Geir believes intelligent life is, or should be, evolving towards an Omega Point, where it will become omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient. Since knowledge guides evolution, he thinks it feasible to speed the process. His ideas are unusual but not worthless. On the basis of his researches and conjectures about Terminal, there is no other explanation of the strange things emanating from it, other than the possibilities you mentioned." Mykal paused. "Would you be willing to comment on the circumstances of Cally's death?"

Avon ignored the question. "Mykal, if this Molli is saying the things you relate, her situation will become difficult in the near future."  _As will mine._

"I am aware of that. But I believe the risks are worth it. And in all sincerity I do not believe she is lying or insane."

"Mykal, this is nonsense. Geir talks about Terminal as if God lives there."

To the appalled Avon, Mykal replied, "if Geir is right, in a manner of speaking, He/She/It does."

 

It was then the conversation was interrupted.

An enormous explosion -- daggers of rock, storms of stone, and a rising roar shattered the tunnels. Blocks of wall caved in as doors down the passageways blew out. They were crushed by the forced of the blast. Time went mad.

The explosion went on. Of the senses, only a numb sense of touch remained. They were deafened, sightless. If there was emergency lighting, it was useless. They drowned in showers of sand and concrete.

Two men had fallen together; endless minutes later time congealed. It seemed they were looking up, and while they could not see what remained of the ceiling, they could see something -- sparks from frayed power cables flaring in turbulent dust. One reached out with an unsteady grip. There was movement and for a moment both thought the same word: alive.

Nearby, a bleeding woman struggled to move, to find direction. She remembered she had a job to do. It would be done. She crawled to them while trying to find how many were still alive. They did not recognize her until she was almost upon them.

The men regained identities. Avon . . . He motioned violently to . . . Mykal. Keep down. He took out his gun.

As Beale approached, Avon looked around, his head pounding. The walls were broke open -- concrete and steel and the guts of broken pipe.

_She knew!_

How much time had passed? The guards were confusedly taking up positions. Shadows stumbled and shouted in the dark. They could feel the rumblings, but could not distinguish voices. Numb, Avon could barely hold his gun. Dust was in eyes and mouth; eyes and lips were burning. He spat. The air was very hot.

Guns drawn, the guards sought cover, waiting by the broken walls. Someone should be coming shortly.

And there were sounds and lights coming down the corridor. Beale put on her mask and gestured to Avon to do the same. She handed a spare to Mykal, and a teleport bracelet. What do they want with him? Closer now. Lights pierced the darkness, shots fired, energy beams cracked through the air. Teleport! Why don't they teleport!

 

The firing was returned. The Federation troops used energy and automatic weapons, but the attackers were ready. Their weapons were crude, but expertly aimed. One found its mark almost at once. A guard dropped with a scream.

The rumbling quieted. He could move his legs. Strength returned to his arms. He glanced at Mykal. The Auron was too dazed to be frightened. Firmly removing Mykal's hand from his arm, he took the mask and angrily threw it away.

He could hear now -- barely. Beale's voice sounded like it was underwater. "I think some of my people were killed by the explosion. Stay with the Auron. They," she gestured, "don't want to kill you. I'm trying to reach the ship, but there seems to be trouble with the communicators."

He watched the lights as the attackers fanned out. He said nothing. Her expression was steady on him. He looked at her. She held his gaze perfectly. Now he knew there was nothing wrong with the equipment.

Beale crouched and moved quickly away. A searchlight found him, blinding Avon but nothing fired in his direction. As she said, (knew!), they did not want to kill their prey. Avon fired at the light, but his aim was poor.

Mykal tried putting on the mask but quickly gave up. Then he noticed. Struggling to see as the dust flowed. . . there. He touched Avon's arm and pointed above. Avon looked. He swore. The overhead damage was very bad. Immense beams protruded from the rock, held only by ruptured piping and torn cables. It could all come crashing down in an instant.

Mykal was moving the teleport bracelet on his wrist. Avon hissed, "I'll explain later!" Mykal nodded briskly, having been just recently promoted from the state of being stunned to the state of being totally bewildered.

The emergency lighting was becoming visible, a fog glow in the dark. Avon fired again, several shots, and this time one of the attacker's lights went down. He gestured to Mykal to follow.

 

Mykal was shocked. "Why are you doing this?"

"If I'm in the midst of it, they'll be confused. It will slow them down; give us time, for what it's worth."

"That's not what I mean. This is not your fight."

(One more fact was also becoming visible. Somewhere in his mind freeing itself from the explosion the conclusion formed. Geir was dead and that too was part of the plan.)

"It is now."

Other lights began cutting through the darkness. The firing from both sides cracked and merged, a sound becoming as loud as the original explosion. He tripped over a body.

He kept low; Mykal needed no encouragement to do the same. There was not much cover. Avon removed the weapon from the dead guard and gave it to Mykal. "Use only at my command. As long as you are with me, they won't shoot in our direction," he shouted.

Mykal nodded. He touched the weapon as he had the teleport bracelet; both were equally foreign to him.

The guards began falling back. One of the attackers charged through the defensive line, but he tripped or was shot and went down. Avon looked for Beale. He saw her strengthening their defensive position, using bodies if necessary.

Another guard fell. Energy beams sizzled overhead. Fires were starting. Flames, almost solid, are weaving before his eyes. There are charred fragments of memory, drifting.

 

Running, shouting in the hallway ahead. Lights searching for him among the dead.

Avon crouched against the broken wall, firing at the lights. He shouted to Mykal, "You know them?" But then thought better of it as Mykal nodded briskly. "Never mind," Avon said. "It doesn't matter."

"Didn't your people warn you?"

He said to himself, "I should have paid closer attention." Avon motioned Mykal to follow him again. Keep moving. Running, he fired. A light went down.

As more of the attackers tried to break through, the fighting became hand to hand. Avon found Beale speaking into a communicator. Her look remained calm and certain.

"We have to wait. A few minutes," she shouted.

Avon gestured above. "Look! No time! Teleport!"

"Soon. There's a delay, very brief. They know about the damage. They need to recalculate," she looked at him. It was no longer important that he believed her, and she knew he did not.

"I would advise you to stay," she said.

For a moment, he thought he saw her gun move in his direction.

_You see me as I am. Trapped at every moment, in every place._

_For you, no illusions._

One can experience both resignation and exhilaration together. A feeling stirs inside him. It is hatred.

"Can't hold them much longer," she added to herself.

"Do what you will."

Someone broke through the side. She moved quickly and took the attacker down.

Avon glanced above again. He could still see nothing for certain more than a few meters away. But for a moment, he thought he saw one of the support beams sag.

The explosion must have grossly miscalculated.

It was then, for the first time, the firing lessened. He hoped for a moment the attackers were unsure of their advantage and might start to retreat. There couldn't be that many of them. But the voice coming through a megaphone was quite certain of where the advantage lay:

"THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. YOU ARE OUTNUMBERED AND OUTGUNNED. YOU CANNOT ESCAPE. LOOK ABOVE. THE SUPPORTS ARE NEAR COLLAPSE."

_Kyv. The lab assistant. Of course._

Beale had moved again. He could not find her. The firing stopped. It appeared as if half his guards remained. He stood by a couple, their weapons still at ready. There were lights everywhere now. Blinding lights, watching him.

He heard the sergeant's voice. "I will meet to negotiate," she said.

"NO! SURRENDER NOW!"

"Accepted. I need to get my wounded. We will toss out our weapons."

The remaining guards rose and slowly pitched their weapons before them. The attackers moved in quickly, cautiously. Avon dropped his gun and motioned Mykal to do the same. The Auron eagerly complied. Hands raised, they walked over to Beale.

Kyv was now visible. Her face was dirty, contorted, triumphant. She looked at him in contempt. "You're ours now, My Lord. And we're going to make good use of you." She motioned him to the side away from the others. Mykal moved to follow but she stopped him. "The Auree stays. We have no need for him."

For the first time Beale looked worried. "As a hostage he would be of great value to you. He's a friend of Lord Avon."

 

Kyv hurried the others along. She looked at Mykal, amused and impatient. "Yeah, for a half hour. Since when does the Federation value one of their lives?"

The captured guards, followed by the rebels, scrambled out the corridor. She hurriedly motioned Avon and Beale forward.

Beale stopped. "You're making a mistake. You will need him."

"Maybe you do. I don't." There was more rumbling, a cracking sound and coughs of concrete. "Move!" she yelled.

"No!" Beale rushed towards Kyv, knocking her down, but Kyv's reactions were too quick. She rolled to the side expertly, shooting the sergeant on the roll. One of the rebels herding the prisoners turned and shot Beale on the ground, killing her.

Avon watched, impassive.  _What do you want?_  Kyv got up, pointing the gun at him.

"In my teens, you were one of my heroes. Now you're as lazy and as stupid as the rest of them. Don't give me an excuse. I can wound quite severely without killing."

He adjusted his cape, indifferent to her. The group ahead was almost out. It was him and her.

"Move!"

Avon was rooted to the spot.

"Very well." She has a crazy look. "You will learn that hate is the first freedom." The gun pointed at Mykal, square to the face. Steady. A slender finger moved towards the trigger -- never expecting Avon to react as he did. He pivoted and rushed towards her. All she saw was a blur. He crashed into her at full strength, falling on her as he grabbed her wrist. Her hand cracked on jagged concrete; he deftly removed the gun from loose fingers; she yelled. He pushed loose, out of range of her kick, as he rose slowly. Her mouth was open, gasping in agony.

The rear guard of the rebels turned. They saw him in the fire light. Smoke curled around him. He pointed the gun straight at her. He smiled, death flowing in that smile. Everyone stopped.

A sea green glow enveloped the two men. And that was it.

The next instant Avon, his guards, alive and dead, and Mykal were on the ship surrounded by troopers and medical personnel. An officer rushed up to him bursting with apologies. Avon did not notice; did not say a word. He glanced over to where the astonished Auron was already being examined by Federation doctors.

Sirens wailed through the ship; troopers rushed into the teleportation units to capture the fleeing rebels. It would be over shortly. He looked at the body of the sergeant. The gun slipped and from his hand dropped.

Mykal watched Avon, struggling, as so many had, to separate the man from the galactic fable. He thought he saw a flicker of sadness like a dying flame upon that face. If so, the emotion was in an instant gone. He decided that whatever the judgment of history, this man would always be a friend to the Auronar. And perhaps something more, if he could ever achieve redemption.

 

The Reign of Chaos

It was a pleased Servalan reviewing the final report. The operation had gone well. Except for the business about the size of the explosion, which was disturbing. He might . . . the Auron might . . . well, now it was nothing to worry about. One can't foresee everything. And what what does not see is unimportant. Still, at the very least there had been a near catastrophic failure to adjust timing. Someone would pay. Yet perhaps it was better something had gone wrong. The result was more than she could have hoped for. Even her problem child had performed well, if a bit recklessly.

The report concluded with a list of successes: the Special Services were assisting the planet's government in improving its security, the incipient rebel movement had been crushed, and the State had a surfeit of new heroes, if some posthumous ones -- including Geir for whom she ordered a month long period of mourning on his planet.

And the Auron, the crux of the operation, the key to her next triumph (and her greatest one after that), had accompanied Avon back to Earth without resistance. Mykal Hodos, scion of what had once been one of the most influential families on Auron, was now in protective custody and apparently not suspicious of his drastically changed circumstances, taking on face value everything that had happened. And her agents informed her that the Auron telepathic network was again a buzz with wonder at the heroics and decency of Avon. What more could she ask?

Nevertheless, she could tell by the look of the man standing before her that one individual was not pleased. She was prepared for that, however. Avon had been astonishingly careless at times, but was no fool. He knew from the beginning something was off. Soon he would know what that was.

"It wasn't necessary to murder Geir," he said. His voice was angry, defiant, more so than she had seen him in years, yet the control was perfect.

"If you mean I did not act to prevent his death, you are correct," she replied coolly. "But I did not kill him, nor is that why you are angry."

"Your people knew exactly what was going to happen."

"They knew most of it."

"And you did nothing."

"On the contrary, I did a great deal. I did what the situation required. You should grant me that. Avon, Geir is nothing. Why do you keep dwelling on him?"

"It was stupid, letting him die. It will take decades to duplicate his research. Unless," and he stopped for a moment, looking over at ORAC, "you made sure you got everything you needed before they blew up the labs. What are you hiding?"

Servalan risked a smile. "Oh, any number of things. You are quick, Avon. Not quite quick enough, but still not bad. Yes, I got everything I needed. Really, you are being hard on me. Geir's most important researches were done years ago. His later papers were more speculation than substance. I have the word on that from my authority," she rose and walked over to ORAC. "When I spread rumors of your impending visit, I got the response I wanted: the traitors would kill Geir for 'collaboration', but you they would take hostage. That enabled me to solved several problems. You should thank me: I'm always putting excitement into your life."

He glared at her.

"It hurts that you are so angry with me. I am grateful you are alive. I did warn you."

 

He remained silent. She sighed. "Would you like to hear the rest?"

"All of it."

"Very well. Believe me, I did what I had to do. I may not be kind, but I am not cruel."

"As assurance that falls somewhat short."

"I regret assurance will always be in short supply with me."

She spoke quickly and firmly. Dangerous as it was to reveal a weakness to an ally, let alone an enemy (and he would always be both), she was determined to take the risk. She would, however, spare him certain unsettling details.

"I do not deny withholding information. I have been concealing it for some time.

"Nearly a decade ago I discovered the centuries old files about Terminal. There had been a time lock on them and one day as I was making inquiries, they were open. As you might expect, they were hard to understand -- they spoke of how Terminal had moved itself just before the Wars, they spoke of it as deciding, of thinking, of almost being alive. My first reaction was to destroy the files, but I continued to read, fascinated. The records mentioned things that I felt would be of great use to me. You must understand my situation at the time. Blake was finished. We had completed our interrogation. I was preparing to make my announcement, one which would have solidified once and for all my power in the Federation. Yet I hesitated. I felt I was no closer to ending this rebellion or what had seeded it. My triumph increasingly seemed unsure. Then I saw how Terminal could change that. According to the records there were strange machines stored on the planet. They could absorb data similar to what we had collected and create artificial "personae" -- indistinguishable from the real. We can do similar things, crudely, but these machines were much more sophisticated and powerful. If there were any chance they still existed, it was worth the effort to find them. The records told us Terminal's location. And I knew of a perfect subject for experimentation.

"It seemed a good idea at the time.

"I am one of your two weaknesses," she smiled. "Blake was the other. As long as you had doubts about his death, I could use that weakness to trap and destroy you whenever I wished. And that was my intent. Though I have long admired you, I was desperate to finish this business before it finished me. I assembled a team of psychological and computer specialists and we went to Terminal.

"From our arrival bizarre things began happening. There was something odd about those abandoned laboratories, something terribly wrong: like they were haunted -- we were not only using the equipment but the equipment was in some way using us. I can't explain it better. Sleep was terrible, almost non-existent. I had nightmares of Blake killing me. I would close my eyes and I would see his vengeful face. He was damning me.

"There was a constant feeling of being probed, watched, studied, but from where and how we did not know.

"Terminal would tell me things -- I know of no other way to express it -- 'messages' in my dreams. Sometimes they were as clear as you standing before me. Others were obscure, wrapped in darkness and enigma. I was informed the Lynks were our destiny. I was warned that attempting to take any of the equipment would mean my death. I believed what I was told.

"My people began dying, some by accident, some by suicide. They became careless. I ordered them to work faster, harder, anything to keep our minds off what was happening to us. I appealed for help, but we were cut off. Later, I learned that whoever or whatever controls Terminal continued to send messages to Earth that everything was fine.

"There was so much on Terminal that could be of use to me! But it was clear we would have to settle for getting off the planet alive. I tried to make new plans, to think new strategies, but everything was washed away in the desperation to get out. My plans changed, were changed . . . I am not sure which. I no longer wanted any of you dead. Terminal itself would complete the experimentation I had begun. I set bombs, yes, but only to eliminate any chance of escape. You would be marooned and you would go mad -- a much more interesting fate than execution.

"By the time I boarded the  _Liberator_ , I was grateful to have won your ship, but Terminal would deny me that as well. No, I did not intend to leave ORAC, but as I said, my people had grown careless.

"You know what happened next. Fortunately, before the ship disintegrated, I was able to teleport to one of the abandoned observation bases orbiting the planet. There was food and water and communications equipment, perfectly preserved over the centuries. I survived, if not in comfort. And after weeks of frantic effort, I was 'permitted' to summon help.

"Three ships were sent for me. Powerful ships, manned by the best of the Federation. Only one got through. The others suffered the fate of the Liberator -- all hands were lost. The third barely made it to a Federation base before going out of control. Shortly after we abandoned ship, it self-destructed.

"You can understand my terror. I felt that whatever controls that planetoid was following me, playing with me, watching me wherever I went, whatever I did.

"By then the political situation had changed drastically. Shortly after my return the base was attacked and destroyed. My rescuers and troops loyal to me were killed by reactionaries. Fortunately, I got to a ship and escaped. I went into hiding on the outer worlds and assumed a new identify. Given all that had happened and the extent of my failure, I did everything possible to put awful place behind me. I certainly never wanted to go back. It was enough to stay alive and return to power, someday.

"I wanted it to remain my secret. As you know, sharing is not my way. By necessity I must share the teleport with my security forces. But I do not wish to share Terminal. Only now I must, at least with you.

She indicated a star in one of the distant sectors of the Federation and clicked a switch. A woman's picture appeared. Though prepared, it was still startling to see a face identical to Cally's. "Three years ago I was informed about curious messages being received by this Auron, Molli, who you now know is Cally's second sister. I keep close watch on the Auronar and these messages, which she calls 'star whispers', disturbed me greatly. There was a certain familiarity to them; their oddness was telling. She spoke of things that no one besides you and I could possibly know. And she told her people the messages were connected with Cally. If one does not allow for lying or insanity, which I admit is asking a lot of credulity, there remains only one reasonable explanation for their origin.

"Very few are capable of taking me on -- especially considering the penalties for failure. Molli is not one of them. There is nothing to show her capable of anti-Federation activity. Aurons are doctors, artists, scientists, traitors -- to be sure -- but not rebels, except for one.

"And," she sighed, "despite their so-called telepathy, Aurons are not in contact with the spirit world.

"I was becoming increasingly concerned -- more information was imperative. ORAC suggested robot probes. It is, after all, as curious about Terminal as I am. That helps. You have no idea how humiliating it is to have to plead with a plastic box! It warned that the destruction of the  _Liberator_  and the fate of the three rescue ships necessitated extreme caution. I had my technicians build the probes. ORAC programmed and launched them.

"The probes," she said facing him directly. "Six have been launched over the past three years, each reporting, shall we say, 'terminal' difficulties. Some were destroyed before reaching the star system, apparently as the  _Liberator_  was. Others malfunctioned after working perfectly for weeks in orbit around the planet. All attempts to revive these probes have failed. Not that these problems were unexpected. Whatever is there is clearly capable of defending itself. I have an enemy. One whose knowledge and power is significant."

 

"I ordered the surveillance of Molli increased, but she must have been warned we were closing in. She has since vanished. My agents are certain she is still on her planet, which have been blockaded, but they have no idea where. She is clearly getting 'professional' assistance from someone; a woman we are certain, but that is all we know. I should have scorched the planet, but for the time being a more subtle approach is advised.

"It was shortly after the last probe failed that I received Geir's request. I had his proposal and papers scanned and given to ORAC -- the routine procedure. But it saw what I did not. There was nothing routine about his work -- I think there is a connection between Geir's researches and Terminal.

"My life will not be at the mercy of whatever lurks there! I will not be cowed. I am prepared to do whatever is necessary, which is why Mykal is crucial. The Aurons like you, Avon, but not that much. However, it will obviously be considerably easier with you two working together than without you. Discover why these messages are being sent and who or what is sending them. Capture Molli and whoever is helping her.

"Loyalty and obedience are not enough. More is required, much more, and while I continue to have doubts about you, I believe I can now hope. I need to hope -- I haven't had much occasion to do so lately.

"You two will be the wedge driven between the Aurons and my enemy. With you and Mykal working together, the trust of the Aurons is assured. With your skill and knowledge . . . well," she hesitated, "I believe that will be sufficient, but I am not sure."

"Such faith."

"You are improved Avon, but far from well. I will win, whatever it takes."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

A lesser man might have savored the irony of a situation that had, in effect, replaced the number two man of the State by an Auron, but not Avon. "The question was rhetorical. Has ORAC attempted to contact Terminal?"

She nodded and inserted the key into the computer. "Yes, but Terminal refuses to respond. It is aware of our efforts to reach it, but brushes them aside. ORAC is powerless against it."

"Have you asked ORAC its opinion?"

"Of course," she said wearily. "Whenever I do it babbles something about a vector, or a wave, or a line through the 'pattern of infinity'. I have no idea what it is saying, so I finally gave up."

Avon looked at her oddly but remained silent.

"Nothing to say?"

"Not yet. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Yes, there is. There is one message, the first Molli received, that I will now share with you. It will give you something to think over."

With fear and resolve bound together, she said, "the message is: 'Belief Lives After Knowledge Errs.'"

And Avon laughed.

 

_Overhead an icicle moon moves through imaged dead sky._

Witness to the difference between truth and a lie.

The Lord Protector was in bed reading when she entered. It was almost three in the morning. He turned the electronic pages of his electronic book, waiting for her to speak. Away from the room of Central Control, she was always anxious and frightened. And he could sense the tension in her now was worse than usual.

The Supreme Commander poured herself a drink. She watched him, his manner composed and relaxed. He did not fool her for an instant. She hated him more deeply than she wanted to admit, but he was still the most desirable man she had ever known; the man who remained her destiny. She finished the drink and put on her gown, then crawled beside him, taking the book and tossing it. He did not resist.

She murmured, "Did you love Cally?"

He expected the question. In one form or another it had been asked many times. "Her feelings for me were far greater than mine for her," he said, reciting, "for a while, anyway. In the end she gave up, on me especially. I think she always cared, but I had no desire to reciprocate. We never made love, as I've said. I did not mind. I did not mind a lot of things at the time."

She moved closer, dimming the lights, holding him in the misty glow. Like other women in his life, she sought a comfort he could never give. "Cally died more of despair than her wounds," he continued. "As you said, Aurons make poor revolutionaries -- though she put in a good effort. Examining her afterward, I realized the explosion on Terminal was not enough to have killed her. She wanted to die; was quite content to do so. We touched, she smiled; that was it."

He was desperate to change the subject. "Your enemy of Terminal is merely using cheap psychological warfare. It's only word play; an acrostic at that --the first letter of each word spells out 'Blake'. Not exactly a threat."

"There are  _other_  messages, Avon. Taken all together they do disturb me. They seem to indicate whatever is on Terminal knows something crucial about me. And yet is unwilling to state it openly."

He shrugged. "There you have it. Your 'enemy' is afraid. So why the concern?"

She looked at him curiously. "It is planting seeds in her mind. Those seeds will grow."

"Are you be willing to show the other messages to me?"

"No." She recalled one she had a particular dislike for:  _The Rebel Eludes Earth._

"Then you are afraid. You and your enemy are on equal footing."

"You will be told, eventually, but not now," she said irritably, then sat up on the bed. "The later messages hint of strange powers of the mind. Powers that may belong to Molli, and perhaps one other."

"Unnamed?"

"Not yet. Oh, I wish I could put the whole business out of my mind, but it is so very odd. I was reminded, and this must sound strange, of old legends . . .

Even knowing the risks of cutting her off, Avon did not want to hear any more. "I've quite had my fill of them of late."

"Don't interrupt! The Auron legends speak of the end time, when there would appear people who could change reality by the power of belief itself. Those people, it was said, would be humanity's last hope."

Avon frowned, thinking of Mykal. If there were ever two people who were further removed from each other than those two . . . yet together . . . It made no sense. Now at this hour, listening to this nonsense, even he was becoming tired.

"It's nothing but an old myth," he eyed her. "Why do you care?"

"Not all their fables are meaningless. Not all their reports false."

"This one I think qualifies."

She sighed. "Perhaps you are right. I hope so. Am I am reading more into this than there is? I perceive a threat and I trust my perceptions."

"We'll discuss it tomorrow."

She looked as weary as he felt, but there was an odd kindness in her voice as she continued. She moved her hand closer to his. "Poor Cally, how I hated her. Yet I can sympathize. I know what it is to have a hopeless love." She suddenly threw herself back on the bed. "Your friends still continue to trouble me. How relieved I was to see them all dead. Everything seemed to fall into place after that. I worry about your fondness for Aurons. Useful as it is to me, that might change. I got two-thirds of them -- I would hate that effort to have been wasted." Her hand neglected, she rolled over, her back toward him. "If you run into this Molli, you will let me know, won't you?"

"I'll do what has to be done."

"You'll do what I order you to do!"

"It was my understanding you wanted information. You will get it."

 

"Don't tell me what I want."

 

"I never will." He said, trying to placate her. "You have my word."

She faced him once more. She spoke with the irritating deliberateness of an often repeated lecture, which it was. "Aurons worry me. They must be watched. They won't forget what I did. They want revenge -- but this new threat will not be allowed to aid them. I will see to that." Then she said idly. "Someday it will be over forever. When I locate New Auron. When you guide me there."

He was so disgusted he wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but he remained in control. He got up abruptly and retrieved the book. "What do you know about them? What do they mean to you?' he muttered.

Her eyes were narrow slices of rage. "I am more interested in what they mean to you."

She watched as he returned to the bed. "And what you know of them. I believe this Molli and your new friend know things they are unwilling to share." She saw his eyes distant and resentful. "But nothing will be done for now." Once back in the bed, she touched his lips with a slender finger.

He said nothing; had nothing left to say. Her threats and warnings formed an unrelenting fog he struggled to make his way through, and in that moral fog both the desire and the hatred for this women were inseparable. Both were caught in the grip of emotions neither could escape. There was no point in assuring her of his loyalty. Whatever assurance he gave, it would not be long before she would begin to doubt, to feel cornered, and to demand of him again that he obliterate the past. Nor was there any point in her assuring him of her love, as much as she could be said to give. It was a problem of being and meaning. Like the placard people, she loved the image, the illusion, the man who did not exist. And the love for that image would live on whatever happened to its irrelevant physical embodiment. That was the reality of her love, and one day the reality that was this man would no longer be needed to sustain it. It hardly mattered.

She watched him closely, seeming to read his thoughts. She caressed his hands, holding both together to her pale cheek, feeling the warmth of life. "Avon, I love and need you. Love is a very ordinary need; even I have it. Each year the feeling grows deeper. But if you were to die, I would live on. If we found ourselves on opposite sides again, I would not hesitate. I would mourn. I would make you an even greater hero in death than you are in life. But I would do what must be done."

He studied her. She almost seemed to be saying that he would, and it frightened him that he could no longer deny the possibility. "I'm becoming increasingly aware of that," he said. "We are together, but even that is not enough."

She lowered his hands and moved beside him, a soft slow movement that barely registered on the bed. She lay her head on his chest, exhaustion seeping into her now muted voice. "I never have enough. That is my tragedy. You are mine but even that leaves me wanting. When you love someone, Kerr, is it necessary to know them? And if not, does love mean anything?" she whispered. She was almost asleep.

He stroked her hair awkwardly. "I think 'knowing' someone is far more difficult than 'loving' them," he said mechanically, his exhaustion as great as her own. "It would seem enough to love -- to the extent the word has meaning."

He felt her nod. "How illusions die over the years! How they drain you. I thought that, before... love always knew enough...," her voice trailed off.

"Before?"

"Before loving you."

 

_The imaged moon envelopes them, whispering silences white,_

Their hearts islands in the soul of the night.

 

In the morning, the hum of the cleaning robots awakened her to the now brightly lit room. Her eyes opened. She saw him standing naked before the wall-sized monitor, looking out to the city and the icy plains. Though far underground, the monitor gave the perfect illusion of a winter window. She could imagine the icy wind and the cold slanting sunlight piercing between the towers and domes of her city. She could imagine a cocoon of light and air enveloping that body, fusing both vulnerability and strength. And for a moment, she could imagine him plunging through that electronic window to the Earth.

_Who is she, on this dying day, reaching for me, far away?_

She rose from the bed too quickly. She put on her robe and rushed beside him. She knew he was aware of her every movement, of every breath (as if she were inside him), but would never give a sign. (He had given her all he could, but she would always want more).

She said, touching him, "Believe me, I do love you."

"Just enough," he said resigned, mourning the fury now buried within him.

"Look, Avon." she said, gesturing to the city. "It is my city, but it is our city as well. As long as I remain, it will be here for the two of us. For always."

"Not nearly always."

Taking her by the shoulders, gently, looking at the white-marble face in the bright artificial sunlight, he said, "Until death us do part."


	2. Rain of Judgment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously published in Input

The will is infinite and the execution confined . . .

The desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.

 

\-- William Shakespeare,  _Troilus and Cressida_

After Vastator shattered the heavens, in the depths of Dreamtime, few ventured beyond their worlds. It was a time of strangeness and terror. Of civilization, reason and rules, laws and love, little held. Only fools, madmen, and Aurons (as the saying went) braved the galactic chaos to travel to the cutoff worlds of Man.

 

At that time, Aurons had not genetically separated from humans. They had not yet crossed the line into shadow and secrecy -- their legends were in the future. They were different -- though how different was a question they were just beginning to answer. They were searching, they said guardedly. They were hoping, but of what they were unsure. Theirs was a quest for the infinite; such quests are derided. To their listeners, the last days, which could not be far off, were a more pressing concern.

But pronouncements of doom were premature. Vastator had destroyed much, but much remained. Science was smothered by superstition, but poetry and art, music and song, prevailed. The mind was in hiding, but was far from dead. And Aurons were children of the mind.

Aurons, it was whispered, could speak with mind alone. (So there was fear along their footpaths.) Aurons, it was said, were experimenting with the soul. (So anger and violence followed them.) But they were, they replied, only trying to help.

. . . Some Aurons became Songmasters . . .

It was rumored the Songmasters could impress secret songs into the heart, songs that only Aurons could summon, songs that were whispers of truth, murmurs of memories, telepathic dreams.

 

In these rumors there did reside a kind of truth. The songs were implanted lines of information. They moved like restless waves of wheat over a windblown field of consciousness. They twisted, cross-connected, knotted together heart and mind. They were the cultural lifelines of the lost Auronar -- a way of finding direction and knowledge, of solace and sustenance. The songs were a secret language, a code to bind their wanderings whatever stellar paths were taken.

. . . For the Songmasters, Auron receded into the galactic mists, never to be seen again. That was the beginning of the Auron tradition of exile and of the quest for "New Auron" . . .

Around these song nodes, Auron communities formed. Here some Aurons, always having mixed feelings about their wanderings, would stay. Even as they were banned from world after world, they would find peace in the song web. A tradition grew of listening for the "songs" and in this way the galactic net that bound their extended communities during Dreamtime came into being.

 

The Web grew as the first Vespera receded. It strengthened during the First Federation, held through the second Vespera, withstood the Second Federation. The telepathic network of songs and messages became a spiritual home, one their planet had never been able to provide.

. . . And at their song intersections they would wait for that great day when, led by their liberator, they would depart with all humanity for the Eden of New Auron . . .

 

 

 

 

The Tree Of Life

 

_I survived alone._

 

And if in disbelief you should demand to know how I was not deprived of life or past, I assure you that memory is invincible. It sustains life as it eventually defeats it. Eventually your disbelief will be validated.

The woman stood by the cave entrance. There was a fire (heat of hatred), and the glow brushed over her (glow of lyrical beauty). Her name was Jenna Stannis, though it was a name (valorous) she had not used for years. She had many aliases now.

 

I endured. I would have thought it impossible without him, but I lived. Yet as an achievement, it might be judged a hollow one. I faked my death. Or did I?

 

(Against an obsidian sky, a pinwheel galaxy is snared in the branches of a leafless tree.)

 

For years, she viewed herself as the last survivor of an epoch she had barely escaped. The bitter pride of that realization strengthened her. She plotted revenge; then pursued, she sought refuge. She found only despair. That was understandable, for in truth she was not as alone as she would have preferred.

 

No, it was not her companion, tending the low fire inside the cave. There was another, but she would not save him. Now that justice was triumphant (as her enemies boasted), she longed to bring that justice to completion. She would do that because she could not bring herself to believe the epoch had truly ended.

 

_I ask that I be allowed a few dreams. And then one day, I will be free to find a home without them._

She still dreamed of a country life: marriage, children (dreams of happiness frequently conspire in their banality), but wished she could be less cynical about it. As a wish for the future, as one hid from the past, one could do worse.

There was a village not too many kilometers away. In the early evening quiet, she could hear bells. She was not born here -- was, in fact, a child of Earth -- but she felt this planet was probably as close to a home as she was ever likely to get.

A voice entered her mind, not altogether welcome, disturbing in its brashness. It too was a reminder of the past.

 

//He will be here soon.//

 

The woman by the fire was black-haired, with a soft, thin face, high cheekbones and an angular chin that gave her eyes a look dignified and remote. Her name was Molli. She was an Auron and a Songmaster.

 

Jenna did not reply. The doings of "Lord" Avon were hardly news. He was alive and it seemed that all existence conspired to remind her of that unpleasant fact. He could not be silenced. He too was a voice in her mind, and she wished they would all go away.

 

Nor did Molli expect a response. Her companion had been sullen ever since Molli announced her decision; the silences between them were becoming frequent and brittle. Consider a metaphor. Think of silence as a lifeless tree; tension as dry branches breaking. She tossed a twig into the sparking fire.

 

The night was clear, cold, cloudless; typical of early Spring. The stars burned very bright, and the sound of a remote river faded in and out like a dying echo.

Some of the "stars" had cause for being so bright. They were rather closer than the others. They were Federation warships, and Jenna knew well their orbital patterns. To a skilled observer, as she certainly was, it was easy to the point of obviousness to discern how they scanned the planetary surface. Servalan's forces had no reason to hide these days.

 

//He saved one of my people,// Molli continued in silent communication, pressing to bridge the widening gap between them. //And the Auron he saved will be accompanying him.//

Jenna was weary as she reentered the cave. "So they say. Saved? Saved from what?" She knew the story as well as her companion, but gave it rather less credence.

 

Molli hesitated. The details of what had happened were admittedly unclear -- but that was not unusual. The network was ambiguous, operating as it did on a "carrier wave" of emotion; what passed from Auron to Auron in this manner was acquainted with fact, but hardly intimate with it. In truth, "Telepathy" was a mixed blessing as far as improving communication. In fact, Molli was not even a true telepath (such had never been born of Auron science, though the effort certainly had been made), but a "telesend": that is, she could transmit thoughts easily, but could receive them from only an extremely narrow range of senders -- Aurons biologically and psychologically "tuned" to her. Without that fine tuning, "telereceiving", if you will, was mental static that warped, twisted, and all too often shredded meaning.

 

But there were messages, not like those she sensed in the network, which seared into her mind with violent and stunning clarity. They had started almost four years before, and they were the reason she was in hiding. None had been sent since she fled the city, however: a fact for which she was very grateful.

Yet despite the confusion, Molli believed in the story's veracity. Well, she hoped in it. As she had with hope absorbed the strange words from that place lost in time and obscurity called . . . Terminal(?).

The story had, after all, been relayed in the best of faith. And she wanted very much to return that faith. It was close to an obligation. She treasured the incident; so it had to be true. It would be improper to doubt it. The story was hopeful; Molli was never one to relinquish hope.

 

She spoke aloud then, dropping the telesending which she knew annoyed and, in some way, hurt her companion. Was it the implied reminder of her sister? Jenna always denied that, but it was done too strongly.

 

"There was an attack. It was aimed at Lord Avon. There is little more I can be certain of. There was an Auron named Mykal Hodos(?) -- he was about to be killed, but Lord Avon saved him. That is all I know. I would think it would be enough."

"Why don't you ask him when he arrives?" Jenna at once regretted saying that. Molli handed her a plate with food. Jenna sat beside her, but showed no interest in the contents of the plate. "We have a long hike tomorrow," she said.

 

Molli nodded, stirring the fire. They were going back to the city. The city that had been her home for almost twenty years, more than half her life. Despite what awaited her, she was relieved. A relief Jenna could not comprehend.  _From unbounded optimism, deliver me._

"We will reach the terminus shortly before noon," Jenna went on, returning to the confident tone that so suited her, now that the annoying subject of Avon's "heroic deed" was dropped. "There should be quite a crowd. There is a risk, but it is slight. They haven't found us in three years; there is a good chance they won't expect us to return now, but we must be cautious."

 

"Lord Avon complicates things," Molli added.

 

"He has that affect," Jenna agreed.

 

"They might think whoever hid me intends him harm."

 

Jenna looked at her closely. Tougher after three years of wanderings, Molli retained her "aura" of innocence, but she was far from naive. "I agree they suspect that whoever has been hiding you is no friend of his. They are correct."

 

"I am tired of running," Molli said, standing. "Aren't you? We have been doing this far too long. You, even longer. I know you are unhappy with my decision, but it is the right one. I am not a fool. If Lord Avon saved one of our people, then there is reason to hope. I don't expect you to agree. How could you? But he may truly be a friend."

 

"You may come to regret your choice of friends, " Jenna muttered. "I would warn you against trusting him. Those of us who have are reduced in number."

Molli stared at the wilderness outside. A meteor burned across the sky, leaving a red-lightening slash. A breeze stirred the branches of the bare tree. "You never suggested an alternative," she said. "There is none. We will go together, as you insisted, to the capitol and then we will part. I will tell them the truth -- as you say, they will not believe me at first. With luck you will be gone by the time they do. Eventually, they will give up; then you will be free."

 

Molli stooped and put her hand on Jenna's shoulder. "I am grateful for what you did for me. I am aware of the depth of your pain." Jenna looked away. "But I am not afraid."

"You ought to be. You will be. You don't know what they are capable of."

 

"Don't I?"

 

"I'm sorry," Jenna whispered.

 

Molli felt increasingly lost. There was such anger and frustration in her companion and sometimes the depth of the emotions frightened her, but more often they brought out compassion, but it was compassion without object or direction. She had never spent so much time with another person. She had been alone since leaving Auron in her late teens; even from her own people she had felt isolated. Despite her songs, she did not fully understand friendship, let alone love.

Her feelings for Jenna were frozen somewhere between sorrow and wonder. It was not often that one was aided by a legend, and even less one aided a legend in turn. Legends, unfortunately, grow tiresome; more to be endured than admired. After three years, it was only the reality of Jenna that affected her, but that reality was elusive.

In these last conversations before parting, both feared they might sound too harsh, too bitter. Both searched for consolation. Both wanted their three years together to be more than a gesture of defiance.

 

Molli said, softly, "Would you like me to sing for you? You used to like that. I have been writing a new song for the Festival. I could sing it," she said; then added: "or I could sing of love." She hoped that somehow that might make the end smoother, less an act of harsh finality. Songs, said the tradition, always helped. And it was the only gift she could offer.

 

"I would like a song of forgetting."

 

"Then it cannot be a song of love."

 

They had spent so much time together, and yet it could hardly be said that they were friends. Jenna insisted that was the way it must be. So Jenna led, Molli followed. So Jenna decided, Molli accepted -- until of late.

For three standard (Earth) years, Jenna's strength and knowledge had kept them free from a Federation increasingly desperate to find Molli. At first it had been easy, almost fun. The open country had provided them with many resources and Jenna was skilled at finding them -- and of contacting the right people (many an old debt was paid off) when they could not. She knew the planet; knew it far better than Molli, who had never been outside an urban environment since the beginning of her self-imposed exile from Auron. When Molli was weak, Jenna gave her strength. Whether crossing river torrents, or boulder covered fields, whether through cold caves or dark forests, it was Jenna who guided her. More than once, Jenna had saved her life.

It was strange to hear rumors and realize they were about oneself. There were rumors that she had died (understandably, Molli was tired of hearing those), or that she was leading a guerrilla band against the Federation (how very silly!), ala Cally. How odd to experience one's life and observe it as a fantasy through the eyes of others. Slowly, with a sense of mounting dread, her life became a waking dream, a song with words and rhythm discordant.

 

The Federation's pursuit was connected with the strange messages she had been receiving, the "star whispers", but she did not understand why. Their "reception" was astonishingly clear, but they were so meaningless -- so much word play and obscurity. Hardly a call for insurrection. Jenna could make nothing of them, though she too believed they were important. Did they mean Cally was in some way alive? Both doubted that.

 

_Forgive me, my friend. You are right. We have followed each other enough._

Now she was going back. The Festival of Judgment, the singing, that had been her life and life was desolate without it. Her famous sister had made a different choice, extraordinary considering her background and upbringing, but that choice, noble as it was, was not Molli's. And that was a problem. It could not be said that she resented Cally, but she was upset by the arbitrary way in which her sister's notoriety had increasingly interfered with her life. She was not Cally! Would never be Cally! It frightened her that Jenna sometimes slipped and called her by that name. Just as it frightened Jenna to be told that sometimes she would call out in her sleep the name that history had engulfed: Blake.

It was not right, this stranglehold of the past. If one broke the sequence, the pattern, one should be able to achieve a measure of freedom. But what if the pattern was life? An uncomfortable thought. The burden of Cally was too great; soon, Molli would carry it no longer. So she would sing one last time, be arrested, and then accept her fate. She had nothing to hide. She would tell them what she knew -- indeed, that had been her intent, before Jenna interfered and insisted she go into hiding. She had done nothing wrong, had never even composed a song (until now) for Cally, or the ill-fated rebellion her sister had been a part of. She had wept for Auron, but had never considered it home. If only she could make them understand!

Jenna took a drink of water and turned in for the night. "If Avon will be here shortly, then perhaps you are more right than you know. Things will change. I might be able to get off this world, if there is a planet to get off of."

 

"You still hate him?"

 

_I offered him these words -- Do not let them break you. I could not imagine life without him. Yet I lived._

"Was there ever any doubt?"

 

"I will not help you."

 

"I am not asking for help," Jenna said sharply. "I am taking you to the Festival; then I am leaving. Let him come and get me."

 

"Then I will lose you both."

 

"I am no one's to lose. Neither is he."

Molli knew little of the story between them; it was obviously something Jenna did not like to discuss. She and Avon had never been close, even at the peak of their early triumphs. And then when the rebellion was smashed, they found themselves adrift, stranded, very far apart: one in the outer worlds, the other at the center of galactic power. Waves of violence had separated them as enemies. Now the ripples were bringing them together once more.

 

Molli's lips trembled. "I meant only I care about you both."

 

There was sighing in the branches as the wind picked up. Molli saw the distant light of another meteor as it burned through the atmosphere. "It's going to be a cold night," Jenna said absently. She wrapped herself in a blanket, her back to the fire.

 

"I will not sing for you tonight," Molli said, "but I will sing for you at the Festival."

In the morning, they rose in silence. They ate and packed quickly but as they left the cave, Molli leading, her footsteps swift and sure, Jenna hesitated. She stopped and looked back. The tree was now outlined against the dawn sky. It looked for a moment like a dark crack spreading across pink glass. The tree was an irritation to her. It should have been dead, but it was a triumph of determination, only determination lacking a point. It had rooted in rocks under a boulder and grown to achieve a twisted path to freedom, but it would never flourish. It was alive, and in a few weeks it might blossom briefly in some tortured fashion, but that would be all.

 

They could have used it. They had spent several weeks in the cave, longer than in most of their sanctuaries. It had not been a pleasant refuge -- the cold of the long winter was only beginning to fade at these altitudes, and the walk down to the river for wood had been irksome. She wondered why she had spared the tree. It would have burned slowly, with steady heat and little smoke. Yet something about it had stopped her. She wanted to destroy it, but could not bring herself to do so.

 

She turned and went down the trail after Molli. Her lungs filled with cold morning air and that felt very good indeed. It cleared her mind. Nearly forty, she found signs of sentimentality distressing. It was all so pathetic. She should have taken an ax to the thing.

The Defender of Earth

 

Servalan, the great and terrible beauty, was so busy! Orders flew, were transmitted, received, decoded, and acted upon -- if not always with enthusiasm, always with conviction -- across the planets, stars, nebulae and the fleets moving amongst them. Her word traveled instantaneously -- yet was never quick enough. Her orders brought movement swift and sure -- yet were never quite enough. She watched it all happen, the storm she set in motion at any given moment; never was there rest for her! And there would be none for anyone else! With all the energy and power at her command, she dared anyone, anything, anywhere, to cross her. As those who knew attested, it was only in conflict that she found peace.

 

Before her, the enormous 3-D display that dominated the room of Central Control awakened at her touch. It throbbed with sparkling blue lights and burning red lines, recording and displaying restless movement commanded; restless movement obeyed.

 

Click. A black sphere appeared surrounding the hard light of one star that had come to mean so much to her. How infuriating that it had resisted her for so long! That would not, must not, continue, this act of stellar impertinence. (She found defiance amusing, but never impertinence.)

 

For ten years she had known there was something in there that did not like her -- not that that was unusual. But it was smart and determined and apparently not in the least afraid. That was unusual. Here was an opponent worthy of her, but she was not in the mood to appreciate the complement. She could only wonder how she would feel when it was destroyed.

The star, a solitary white dwarf, was over four hundred light-years from Earth. Around it circled its lone companion along with the usual stellar debris. It was the artificial planet, the hand-me-down from the First Federation, the galactic myth known as "Terminal". Only one other individual knew for certain that it even existed. Yet, "Terminal", for all its obscurity, was an enemy and of the worst kind. It did not take her seriously.

 

The yellow display to the side of the sphere read: "Forbidden Zone." This zone was 5 light-years in radius: all Federation shipping had been diverted around it.

 

Click. The star in its black pool, the attendant documentation, the name of "Terminal": vanished. She skimmed thousands of light-years away, and selected another . . . what? This too was an enemy. A swarm of electronic fireflies circled in a red smear around the center of the screen. In that center of that smear was a single object, a place where language failed. It was a hole in space-time, huge, black as a midnight cave, a gravitational spider web, unlike anything that had ever been encountered. Outside the swarm, three tangles of lights circled, 100 light-years from the central object.

 

Thousands of light-years from Earth, it was the object commonly referred to as the Black Shield. Five light-years in radius, it rotated at nearly the speed of light, and possessed the mass of over a 100 galaxies.

 

(The "smear" was a representation of the thousands of antimatter mines that surrounded the object. The "light" tangles were Navy Group Omega, three of her galactic fleets which made up the Combined Fleet of 10,000 ships.)

Something in there did not like humanity -- not that that was unusual. But even granting its hostility, what could be its purpose, its origins, its motives?. She was as awed by the Black Shield as anyone, but she did not fear it. It was simply that it did not belong in this universe, her universe, by which she meant she could apparently neither use nor destroy it. It was something that did not fit. She could see it, but make no sense of it. Perhaps it did not matter. Her plans would continue regardless. There had been no attacks on Federation shipping since she ordered the "object" besieged. The Auron intelligence relayed to her military had been sound. But since it was an enemy she did not understand, it remained a concern. Like "Terminal", it insulted her by existing.

 

Her scientists said the object was a gravitational prison from which nothing could escape. She smiled (always a warning sign). Then how had it attacked Federation ships? She knew better than they. How typical! So they were dismissed. She was disgusted with her learned minions. Sometimes she felt she and the "object" belonged on the same side.

 

Click. The two screens slid together: two black spheres swelled before her, side by side. They were poisoning her, but she would live. Despite misgivings, she would absorb them both. There was no doubt she would win. She always did.

 

She noticed the time display pulsing brightly in the corner. It was almost time for the first of two meetings planned for this day. She sighed and clicked the button once more. The information cosmos she ruled vanished. It was as if the whole of the universe had been snuffed out. The image momentarily pleased her.

 

In the darkness, she inserted the activator into the computer beside her and asked quietly: "ORAC, tell me where to locate New Auron."

The computer hummed to life. #The location of 'New Auron' as you refer to it remains a matter of conjecture as Avon erased the information from the _Liberator_  files before I had access to it. As I have mentioned previously, on numerous occasions I might add, it would be possible for me to generate a search pattern that would result in an efficient search of the area. It is conceivable that only a few thousand star systems would have to be examined. However, I must point out that this problem remains of little intrinsic interest, and I have far more pressing uses for my time. I suggest --#

 

"Oh, shut up, ORAC," she said wearily and yanked out its activator.

 

The cell was quiet; comfortable in a way that could have been almost consoling to a prisoner. To this particular prisoner, however, it was only a cell and remarkable only because he had no standard to judge such a thing. "Cozy" was a word that had come to mind, though rather few had ever had occasion to use that term when describing a Federation jail. But let us be generous. For a start there were books, and good books too (he noticed several were copies of books over a millennium old. One was a prayer book dated 1662(!) -- passages were even marked for his consideration, but he did not know if by previous occupants or the jailer.) There was music, soft and soothing. There were lush fruits brought every morning (at least he thought it was morning -- one could never be sure). Regular meals, writing implements (how very thoughtful!) -- the jailer seemed to know him well and certainly had taken a lot of trouble on his behalf. Even a phone with a direct line to the guard captain had been installed. The guards were firm, but polite. They deferred to his every wish -- well, almost every wish. They seemed almost sympathetic in an odd way, though they kept their distance. Incredibly, they seemed to be trying to reassure him, by manner, mood, and gesture.

 

They informed him that they had received explicit instructions from the Supreme Commander herself, ruler of the Federation, Defender of Earth, all that, (how they loved to repeat her block titles!), and those instructions would be obeyed. So Mykal Hodos waited. He hoped to hear from the man who had saved his life, but the guards informed him stiffly that Lord Avon had no time to spare. He had hoped to learn more about the death of Dr. Geir, but they insisted they had no news. They shrugged and assumed a manner suggesting bottomless ignorance combined with total helplessness. So he resigned himself to the irrevocability of it all. He wanted to mourn and someday he would. But things had moved far too fast to absorb what had happened.

A small part of him wondered if that speed was intentional.

 

The shock was so great; only the destruction of Auron had equaled it, though the news that Avon had teamed with Servalan to crush Blake had been a close second. Memory was brutal. There had been a moment when death was certain, then the ship, the strange teleportation devices (about which there had long been rumors), and now here. All because of Avon. It was too jarring. In his life it always seemed as if he were stumbling backwards, tripping over the present, landing flat on his rear in the future.

 

He wondered if there were other Aurons on Earth. Aurons were banned from the Center (the twenty or so worlds that still held the bulk of the human population), but since news did get out through the web, there had to be some kind of underground. Perhaps even on Earth itself. But he would not be able to reach them. His mental powers were academic, in more ways than one.

 

In the meantime, doctors of medicine, doctors of psychiatry, came and went. They were not nearly as polite as the guards. But after several days (he guessed) of tests and questioning, they apparently had what they needed. He wanted to rebel, to show them what he was made of, but it would have been futile. They noticed him only to the degree necessary. To them, he barely existed.

 

Thus matters stood, until one day he was awakened and informed by a nervous guard that the hour was eminent. Mykal was groggy. He knew he should have understood, but he didn't. The man became upset:  _Servalan_  would be visiting him! She would be coming to his cell! Soon! Everyone was terrified. They had been given the strictest orders to treat the captive extremely well, but this was unheard of. Clearly the prisoner was special indeed. The treatment, always circumspect, became reverential. Mykal enjoyed it: watching the terror and might of the Federation scurrying about as if on a grade school recess.

But at the moment she chose to appear, all the fears and doubts since he had come to Earth surged back in like a mud slide. He had not intended to, but he rose when she entered. And for an instant he thought of Kyv and the gun pointing towards him and the moving finger . . .

 

Ivory dressed, imperious, the ice empress, ruler of the Federation: there was no doubt it was her. Odd, how she was shorter than any of the guards, and yet seemed to tower over them (an effect he had noticed Avon possessed as well). She stood there a moment, then dismissed them curtly. The door quickly closed behind her. She said nothing, smiled, and moved gracefully to sit beside him, ever so subtly signaling that he could sit as well. Everything about her manner was smooth and reassuring.

 

She asked how he had been treated, inquired about his condition, apologized with relentless sincerity for not being able to see him earlier, touching his hand with fingers like a freezing stream. She assured him Lord Avon was indeed taking an active interest in his, oh, how shall we put it, case? She wanted him to know that. She smiled throughout; her voice squeezing out sympathy, as if from a rotted fruit. Mykal could not smile, could not talk, his lips and tongue were numb, but she was not offended. She went on regardless. She sighed that while Lord Avon was a great man, he was a difficult one. But she reminded Mykal that not everyone could be said to have been saved by the First Citizen. It was an honor. He couldn't have agreed more.

Finally, she acknowledged his unease. "I know this is a difficult time for you, Mykal. May I call you that? (He nodded ever so slightly, as if terrified his head might fall off). It is difficult for all of us, believe me. The wounds and errors of the Troubles," she paused, watching him closely, "are far from healed. Fools envy my position, but I would give a lot to be free of it."  _Yet I love it so._

"For better or worse, however, I rule the Federation and we must all make the best of our lot in life. I am sorry, Mykal, about your teacher and friend. Dr. Geir was a great man and I assure you those responsible will pay for their crime. But I must caution you that we err if we dwell on the past. I want you, instead, for a moment to look at things from my point of view. You may not realize it but you are a very important young man -- just turned 30, am I correct? -- and while it may shock you to hear this, the President of the Federation, your Supreme Commander, needs your assistance."

 

Mykal choked. "How can I help?" he said, or words to that effect. They came out strangled. He was stunned he had said such a thing, but there was something about her that drew it out of him. It was said she had power over men, power other than force. Now he knew first hand. Intrigued, he relaxed slightly.

 

"Thank you, Mykal" she said. "In time, you will understand why I am asking this. For the moment I simply want you to listen. Then I will answer your questions ( _for the most part_ )." She looked at him sympathetically. He waited.

 

"Please explain," he replied, more calmly now.

 

"Good," she said, going straight to the point. "There is an Auron whom I want to question. She has information which may be vital to the Federation ( _especially its ruler_ ). You may have guessed of whom I am speaking."

 

His eyes were wide: "Molli." He added as an afterthought: "Cally's sister."

"Yes. Cloned sister of the legendary Cally," she replied in an airy way, with frost on the words, not sparing either of them. "Outside of this room that is only a rumor. An unfounded rumor it would be unwise to spread -- and I know you wouldn't do that. Here, however, between us, it is emphatically the truth."

 

He watched her intently as she continued. "Mykal, the Troubles were a terrible experience. We came very close to civil war, of havoc that has not been seen for centuries -- and we remain on the edge. We dare not move any closer -- another Vespera could mean the end of everything."

Despite himself, he respected the passion in her voice. That seemed genuine, and he was grateful to be in agreement with her overall statement. She continued: "As long as I rule, threats to order will not be tolerated. Though," she hastened to add, "I believe Molli is innocent of wrong intent ( _unlikely, but possible_ ). However, those helping her are not. They must be captured and brought to justice. From your own experiences, you no doubt are aware of certain romantic types who look on the Troubles as a kind of 'adventure'. The gang that tried to kill you was of that ilk. Such political criminals must not receive further encouragement."

She stopped, waiting, as if having given a cue. Mykal hesitantly finished for her. "You want me to help Lord Avon find Molli. And you want me to enlist the aid of the Auron community in that effort."

 

She smiled warmly, sincerely, thrilled as always to discover intelligence in a male. "Yes, Mykal, that is precisely what I want! I will add that Lord Avon is quite impressed with you. We have had several talks concerning you ( _have we ever!_ )."

 

He looked at her doubtfully.

"It is true that Lord Avon and I were once enemies, but he has come to be an ally and a good friend. I owe him a great deal," she said brightly. "You see, I can be trusted."

 

"You made him a Lord and Gentleman," he muttered noncommittedly.

 

"I made him a Lord," she sighed, the smile fading, "Nobody makes Avon a gentleman. My point is that I am reasonable. Especially when I have something in common with the person I am trying to reach." He looked at her, startled. "We do have a common concern, Mykal -- neither of us wants any harm to come to Molli. So, I want you to be my 'ambassador' to the Auronar. You agree such is needed."

He was miserable and sounded it. "No denying that. But why me?"

 

"A legitimate question," she nodded, "and I believe you may already suspect the answer. You are fortunate, Mykal, though you may have difficulty believing that at this time. You have a gift for being at the right place, if at the wrong time. There is a glorious destiny in your future. Your family was once prominent on Auron -- Hodos is a name that commands respect. While I have counted on Avon to perform many difficult assignments -- and he has done well -- I feel it best this once that he be accompanied by someone who can, shall we say, serve as a 'guide'."

 

"Lord Avon is well respected among the Auronar," said Mykal, empty of profundities.

 

"By that you mean I am not?" she asked delicately.

 

"True," Mykal said steadily. He couldn't keep the word in.

 

"You don't trust me?" Her voice was composed and calm.

He winced, but could not deny the truth. "No, not entirely."

Mykal felt bare, small. He had a feeling he was now walking a well-paved road to hell and the ideal companion for that journey was at his side. What had been done to Auron was too terrible to contemplate. Though there remained questions on what had happened, there was total agreement that the criminal responsible was this woman. She had, after all, done nothing to deny it. And given her history, she was hardly going to ask a few questions and then let him go. He could be left to rot here. That was one possibility, if she were inclined to mercy.

 

The murky logic of his situation had not gotten any clearer during his captivity; indeed, it had gotten worse. Something was very wrong -- yet that uncomfortable feeling was dominated by one resolute fact: Avon had saved his life. The same Lord Avon who had tried to save Auron. And the same man who worked tirelessly for this most feared of rulers. If in that appalling contradiction there might be a way to freedom, only Avon could provide it. But the Lord Protector had not exactly been chummy since the incident.

Mykal had a flash of brilliance: "Can I think this over?"

 

"You may, Mykal," she replied, rising, a hint of offense in her tone. "But Avon leaves tomorrow. It would make matters easier, if I could assure him you would be accompanying him."

At that, she walked to the exit. The tenuous hold of civility was slipping; the glacier girl was coming back. She looked at him: neither was happy. "And if I refuse?" he asked.

 

She smiled warmly, and he was ashamed to admit his reaction was momentary relief. "Then we will have to talk some more," she replied.

 

In his cabin near the fore of the starship, on a gray metallic deck, which was not metal and not truly a deck, sitting in a comfortable chair facing the blank screen of the monitor, Avon examined the two plastic cubes. She had not discussed them, but gave them to him silently, closing her hand over his palm with frightening delicacy.

 

She explained that he was not to contact her until the matter with this Molli was settled. She did not wish to be bothered and towards that end she had given him full authority over this operation. She emphasized her confidence that he would not fail.

 

He thought of asking if this too was a trap, but the timing seemed bad; her answer certain to be unenlightening. She looked at him, subdued, almost shy, again seeming to guess what was on his mind. "You will set the trap this time, Avon. Not me. You know I don't want to lose you."

 

He opened his hand and looked at the cubes, then at her. "You're never afraid, are you?"

"Afraid? Of what?"

 

"Of losing me. You would never let me go."

 

"No, Avon, it's more complicated than that. I will lose you someday. But for now, I am confident you would always return."

 

"You're counting on weakness," he said. "That's dangerous."

 

"Oh, I'm counting on much more," she said, adding: "Remember: bring me a gift."

 

He gripped the cubes and walked angrily out of the room.

 

It had been less than two weeks since his return from "Geir's" world. Now he was on his way to "Molli's" world. Odd that he should think of them that way. They were worlds of their own, possessing millions of inhabitants: worlds with histories, customs, beliefs, but all reduced in his mind to the individual that was his mission.

 

He was now thousands of light-years from Earth, far above the galactic disk, and was idly turning the data cubes in his fingers. One cube was red. It held the data on Molli and everything related to her disappearance -- possibilities of who might be hiding her, extrapolations, personal data, sightings (ORAC, he had been assured, had done its usual thorough best). The other cube was black. It held the information on the artificial planet known as "Terminal" -- the messages, along with ORAC's deductions and conjectures as to what they could mean.

The cubes could not be copied. In 24 hours, (16 had already passed) both would dissolve into useless puddles of molecules. Avon put them on the table with a rap. "Belief Lives After Knowledge Errs". That was the first message received from Terminal. Take the first letter of each word and it spelled: BLAKE.

 

It was impossible to miss the punch line, but what could be the joke? Avon did not know what he felt. Blake was only a cold memory, an indecent reminder of an embarrassing past, yet as a name he would not die. What was it saying and (this was the most disturbing part), saying to him? He felt certain that the message was addressed to him as well as Molli; that it was sent by something, someone, who knew him very well. And it wanted to talk.

 

Not to mention possessing a truly bizarre sense of humor.

Avon pressed a control key; the workstation came to life. He inserted the red cube into a slot and began reading. He would start with the business at hand. "BLAKE", as usual, could wait.

 

Molli's world and its solar system was, using a tolerable metaphor, a space reef, a solar hazard for any ship entering its orbit. Yet it had been for centuries a major trading center -- when legal -- and a major source of smuggling -- when not. The Federation had tried for decades to control it, never fully succeeding, and until of late, giving up. The resolution of this paradox resided in human nature.

It was a young world by the standards of the galaxy; a fluke planet surrounded by stellar debris, like Earth's solar system before the first biochemicals started to mate. Billions of years off-schedule; yet fully capable of life. The stellar debris should have been swept up and congealed, but like Saturn's rings, only on a far grander scale, remnants of trillions of worldlets which had never amounted to anything resembling a planet and could only be called asteroids by the generous, drifted in deadly orbital paths. Navigation was hazardous, difficult, slow. In addition, the orbit of Molli's world was highly eccentric, which did little for its habitability -- Summers and Winters were too long (its year was equivalent to three standard (Earth) years) and temperatures too extreme.

 

So the natives compensated. You wouldn't want to go there? Ah, but think of the great time you would have if you did! The planetary culture developed a reputation for openness and friendliness rarely equaled, certainly not by the closed worlds of the Center. Critics derisively called it "Hell" -- not for the climate, though that would have been reason sufficient, but because it would "take anything". Even Aurons were welcome, and there were not many places in the galaxy of which that could be said.

He recalled from sometime, many years before, that Jenna had spent many years here.

Then there was the Festival. Every "year" in the early Spring of Molli's world, the interplanetary dangers provided a spectacular excuse for the pious to avoid work -- a huge prolonged meteor shower hit the planet, producing an atmospheric display of astounding splendor. To the religious, this was supposed to mimic the end of creation. To those not so inclined, the shower, called the "Rain of Judgment", provided a holiday wild with color and noise, that loosened tongues and inhibitions and resulted in, well, a really good time. (Sad to say, several people were invariably killed during the course of the Festival. But on a happier note, many more became pregnant. Note, it was a religious event and the locals would have been saddened if you poked fun at it.)

 

It had all begun during Dreamtime, after the overnight collapse of the so-called "First Galactic Civilization" (historians had never settled on a name for that near anarchic arrangement of worlds held together by only the gossamer-thin lines of instantaneous communication -- curiously, there had been very little trade at the time). Dreamtime, in the depths of the First Vespera, was a time of terror: when no one knew what had happened and rather few wanted to find out.

 

Molli's world (as all others) was cutoff as the new Dark Age began. In the century and a half that followed, myths and legends arose; all manner of cults formed, joining despair and longing in variations that ranged from pathetic to poignant to grotesque. Like a fetid swamp that light seldom penetrated, the oxygen of reason was polluted with the vapors of superstition and dread. And while most of these ghosts of departed sense dissolved back into the mental ooze from whence they sprang (frequently taking a goodly number of converts with them), one that did not was the cult centered around the "Tree of Life."

It did not stay a cult. The "Tree of Life" became a religion: that is, it acquired social respectability and political power. How that happened is uncertain. Obviously, the meteor shower provided "heavenly" encouragement -- that always helps. True, the early settlers had been a sturdy, stolid lot and that helped as well. Yes, they struggled hard, and initially hated harder, but eventually, as the social cost got ever more extreme, they learned the value of tolerance. The "Tree of Life" became peaceful and all-embracing, having cautiously and skillfully grown after the early excesses to become something for everyone. It encouraged hard work and pleasure; offered both solace and good cheer. Perhaps, given the lack of fastidiousness, its triumph was inevitable. Even cynics granted it seemed to speak to and of something deep within humans (and Aurons -- there were many converts). Harbinger of the end of existence, of the end of time itself, the "Tree of Life" and its supreme sacrament, the "Rain of Judgment", eventually permeated every aspect of planetary culture.

The Festival, in keeping with the religious base, had begun as an attempt to assuage a God grown distant, an unknowable God who had ceased to speak at a moment when human triumph staggered and fell (cynics who pointed out He/She/It hadn't been all that communicative before hand were dismissed).

The Festival became an effort at prophecy. According to myth, the meteor shower was a portent of the falling of all stars -- an event that was never too far in the future (the date of the great "Rain" had been predicted many times). When it happened, the "Tree of Life" that shaded, supported, and in some sense was the whole of existence, would flower and it would be Judgment Day, the end of existence.

 

_And on that dreadful Day of Judgment, the dead would rise and the secrets of all hearts would be revealed._

 

As noted, Aurons had long been treated with tolerance on this planet and since the inhabitants placed a premium on commercial skills, they had prospered. The open policies of trade if not leading directly to brotherhood had worked inexorably to reduce violence. Until recently, things had been going well. The planet was neutral; the Troubles for the most part passed it by.

Enter Molli. Her life as an actress and singer had been the Festival. She had become immensely popular; so much so she had even been given the honor of being the first and final singer and the even rarer privilege of composing her own songs. (Avon reviewed the songs, but could find nothing of significance in their lyrics.) For an Auron, even here, that was unheard of. Perhaps it was a gesture of sympathy, for permission had been granted only following the destruction her home world. Anyway, the Federation had protested, but the honor granted was not revoked.

But then Molli disappeared and now "her" world was besieged by a Federation Battlegroup of one hundred warships. Nothing left or entered planet without the most extensive searching. The Special Services was certain she remained on the planet, as was whoever had helped her vanish. But who could that be? Molli had been under surveillance well before then. It had to be someone very knowledgeable of the planet and someone skilled at fighting the Federation. There were not many living possibilities.

 

As it stood, the natives were cooperative but unenthusiastic. The Auron community insisted it knew nothing, and for once Servalan believed them (she had, after all, forcefully interrogated enough of them). But her patience had run out, and now it was time for the Lord Protector to bring the business to a close.

He skimmed the remainder of the information. The fact that his arrival was timed to be just prior to the beginning of the Festival might help. If the Festival did indeed celebrate the end of the world, his presence might be persuasive of that very real possibility unless Molli was found.

(He knew he should rest but could not bring himself to do so. He was now entering that mental state in which the sheer fascination of the problem drove him forward relentlessly. He pitched the first cube away. He no longer had need of it.)

 

He quickly programmed the database to search for every enemy (alive or dead) of the Federation who had spent time or been suspected of spending time on the planet. Not a few names poured out of the screen; one of them was a name he knew only too well. He suspected, but it was still a shock. He studied the list for a long time.

 

But she was long dead. She could not be a possibility.

 

He inserted the black cube in the port. Servalan insisted there was a connection between these two cubes, and the connection was the demon hiding in the depths of Terminal -- the demon determined to prod him with a pitchfork past. It was at least succeeding in irritating him. He could not sleep. He read on.

 

Far to the rear of the ship was a sullen Mykal: in his cabin, guards at the door (a ceremonial display only, he had been assured). He examined his new clothes, the insignia, the papers presuming to give him power and position. There was a mirror, but he did not look at it. On the table was a gift. It was from her -- a compact computer for writing, called a "recorder". Beautifully designed: you could open the case and key in, or on an attached pad you would write in long hand and the machine would automatically encode it as text for later editing, or you could speak into it with the same result. It was truly portable, for when folded was not much larger than a deck of cards. He refused to touch it.

 

As he was driven that evening to the spaceport, Earth's moon, Luna, loomed over the western range of snow- covered mountains like an unanswerable question. He told himself he had no choice. When one is in trouble, sometimes the best, the only, option is to go in deeper. The logic being that something might turn up. It was clear nothing was going to turn up in his cell on Earth.

The aircar raced past a construction site, acres of shadow girders and brilliant pinpoint lights. Probably the enormous stadium he had heard about on the Federation News Network -- the stadium planned in her honor.

At the port itself things moved very fast and soon he was in space and that offered a freedom of sorts. Freedom and a chance to act, he told himself, a chance that he increasingly felt was becoming an obligation. But his discomfort continued and in the tiny cabin nothing beckoned. What was it about the Federation that whenever he thought about it he wanted to take a bath? Though a pacifist, he would have gladly died for his people. Now, he was in service to the oppressor, and no amount of rationalizing could change that. Cally and the others had been his heroes, and were hardly pacifists themselves. Now, he was on a mission to find her sister in the name of their greatest enemy. He wondered, glancing at the paraphernalia of power, what Blake would have done in a mess like this. He tried not to think how Avon would have handled it.

 

Shortly after her meeting with Mykal, in an area adjacent to Central Control, she stood before a enormous monitor. Facing her, as if there were no barrier, was a table surrounded by a dozen seated men, solemn and silent. From their vantage, she was projected much larger than life, a figure towering over them -- radiant and wary. From her vantage, in contrast, it was if she were presiding over an assemblage of overly dressed dwarves. The "dwarves", however, were her highest ranking military officers: the men commanding Navy Group Omega. The meeting, they insisted, could no longer be delayed. They would be returning to the Front shortly, so perhaps the urgency was understandable. Yet, there was something odd about the request. Too much was being left unsaid and that was a bad sign.

 

(At this meeting, the Special Services would not be present. There was a distinct lack of affection between the two Service branches. A feeling of mutual detesting that she encouraged for her own security -- though it concerned her on occasion that the animosity was so easy to maintain.)

 

Could the meeting have something to do with the production of anti-matter mines? There had been long-standing complaints about supply delays. Anti-matter mines were made only in the huge complex of factories that dominated Earth's moon -- their production was forbidden anywhere else. And since it was thousands of light-years to the Black Shield, the logistic problems involved in the transporting of the devices were unprecedented in magnitude.

Yet her informers reported the issue was not central. It was that fact that had persuaded her to meet with these men. It fed her growing suspicion that there were indeed serious problems at the Front, but they had nothing to do with the technicalities of military operations.

She waited until all eyes were fixed on her, then spoke.

 

"Gentlemen, as you are aware, I am extremely busy and do not wish this meeting to last longer than necessary. I have read your agenda. I have concerns. Given the urgency you relayed to me, it appears that something has been left out. I suspect that missing 'something' is the point of our gathering. Very well," she said in triumph, "I assume you have selected a spokesman. If so, I would like that individual to explain the true purpose of this meeting and why you insisted I attend."

 

"Madam President," said one man rising without hesitation. That was Fleet Commander Marden, second only to the High Admiral (herself) in rank. He had long been a concern, despite (or because of) his abilities. It was Marden who had worked closely with Avon to rebuild the galactic fleets. It was Marden who persuaded her to take action against the Black Shield when evidence of its involvement, always circumstantial, became overwhelming. He had a forehead that looked like it belonged on a steamroller; a body that looked always on the verge of attack. Something would have to be done about him.

 

"Supreme Commander, Defender of Earth . . ." he continued.

 

"You can stop there, Fleet Commander. I am familiar with my titles."

 

"Of course," he replied, bowing slightly, unperturbed. She frowned. "We concur that time is short. We have no desire to detain you from your duties. Now," he said, raising his voice, "There is a matter pertaining to the defense of the Federation; I am speaking for the record. It concerns Navy Group Omega, now surrounding the object commonly referred to as the 'Black Shield'. I am here to express what I and others perceive as a lack of support to and understanding of the circumstances at the Front."

 _He's evading!_  "You speak nonsense, Fleet Commander. My administration has never faltered in its support to the navy. I have given substantial sums and will continue to be most generous. You speak to me as one ignorant of military affairs. May I remind you of another title: the Victor of Star One. Should there be another war, you can be certain that I will win it."

 

"Meaning no disrespect, Madam President, but may I remind you of the circumstances of your previous victory?" he said firmly. "For it has bearing on the matter. Historians fail to note the degree of luck involved ( _if they value their lives_ ). Had you not ordered every available ship in pursuit of the mad traitor Travis, an act unprecedented in Federation history; had the fleet not by luck been within a few hundred light-years of Star One when the call for help was received, defeat would have been certain. We faced an enemy whose every ship was a match for ten of ours. The current enemy shows every sign of being even more formidable. All soldiers acknowledge luck, but few think it prudent to rely on it."

 

She was furious, but would stay in control! "Nor do I. I believe in luck Fleet Commander, but I assure you I do not depend upon it. My support will continue; the funding will not be reduced. If it is assurance you seek, then you have it."

 

"Budgetary support is not our concern," he said blandly.

 

 _No, I thought it wasn't_. Impatient as she was, she could not resist drawing this out. "Oh. What in my ignorance have I overlooked? Allow me to speculate. Is it technological? The new anti-matter mines give us the most devastating weapons ever devised. Since they have surrounded the Black Shield, not a single ship has been attacked. And yet, I apparently am missing something." She steadied herself, "Now, what could that be?"

Marden weathered the storm. "It is not a technological matter, High Admiral."

 

"Then what is it, may I ask? Or is this an exercise in suspense as well as time wasting, Fleet Commander?"  _Impudence!_

 

Again, not a blink. He was very ready. For a moment she wondered if he were aware of the secret report on the Front operations. Now she was alarmed. "The matter is more subtle, I assure you," Marden said, unhurried. "It is of morale and of perception. Forgive me for stating the facts of the current situation. Three fleets surround the 'object' termed the 'Black Shield'. They monitor every aspect of it. They control the planting, distribution, and movement of the mines. A total of one hundred thousand support personnel and three thousand ships are involved: mine-layers, pursuit vessels, cruisers, destroyers, battleships. Except for the battle of Star One, there has never been such a concentration of power by any human space force.

 

"Yet, Navy Group Omega might as well be abandoned. There is hardly any communication with the Center, the scheduling of replacements is haphazard, more accidental than not. Earth -- (he stressed the word) -- barely acknowledges us. It is as if as a force we do not exist, or if we do, we are best not mentioned, best forgotten. Over the past two years this situation and its consequences has steadily worsened. Fighting among our people, endless requests for transfers, incidents, accidents, all at an accelerating rate. The statistics are not to be denied. It is an extreme situation and one that is deteriorating.

"We therefore make a request. One we feel is reasonable."

 

"Oh, I am sure you do. Now what is this request," she demanded. So the report was true.  _Oh, wretched hell!_

"We request a full inspection and a written report from the highest level of the Federation regarding our concerns," Marden said bluntly. "The individual who would perform this inspection would be one held in great esteem by all personnel at the Front. One whose technical knowledge is unquestioned. One whose presence would be an ideal symbol of your administration's support."

 

She was appalled. She wanted to scream.  _Impossible!_  "Lord Avon is not a piece of military hardware!" She exclaimed. "I assign his priorities, no one else. Vital as the operation against the Black Shield is, he has far more pressing matters to attend to. You will have to request someone else."

 

"There is no other. He is the only man," he stressed the word ( _insolent_!), since the statement he was about to make was also true of the individual he was addressing, "awarded the Order of Falconer, twice. Lord Avon is universally respected. There is no substitute -- unless you yourself could be persuaded to perform the inspection."

 _So that was his trump._  "I will take that offer seriously and thank you for giving it," she responded coolly. They expected threats, but would not get them now. "But that is out of the question. I have not left Earth in years, for obvious reasons."

 

"Then Lord Avon remains the only acceptable choice," he said.

 

"Acceptable choices are mine to make," she replied.

 

"And ours to submit to, Madam President," he bowed

 

She glared at them. "Is that the consensus of this meeting? I wish to bring this to a conclusion. The other matters can be dealt with routinely," she said, attempt to sound bored and not quite pulling it off.

 

"We agree. That is our conclusion and request. Failing yourself, there is no substitute for Lord Avon, and the need is pressing. If there were any reasonable substitute, we would gladly accept that person. But there is none."

 

 _How true!_  "Gentleman, I am not pleased with your request or this state of affairs. I will, however, take the matter under advisement and will give a formal reply. I will first verify that the situation is as serious as you say and that there is no course of action other than the one suggested. Of that, I am unconvinced, but I will keep an open mind." She added loftily.

"You will agree that I have always done so."

"We agree," he repeated politely, with a hint of a smile. "We await your response, Madam President."

 

"This meeting is concluded!" she snapped. The men rose and saluted. She violently turned off the screen. She was furious and it had showed, so she was angry at herself now as well. She had to get this situation back under control. Marden had surprised her. To the degree a man was predictable, to that degree he was vulnerable. Marden was not predictable enough. She had to think.

 

As Marden left the room, the officers buzzed around him. He said nothing. In the lion's lair, it would be unwise so much as to think dissent. But he was reassured that the meeting had not gone badly. She suspected, of course, and a good deal. No plan survives contact with the enemy, certainly not one as formidable as the Defender of Earth, but the prime objective had been achieved.

The Lord Protector would be sent to the Front.

Marden's life was the military; thus he was a realist. As one of the living heroes of the Galactic War, he realized he owed his continuing survival both to his fame and the fact that Lord Avon had interceded more than once to the monster on his behalf. Marden was grateful. He regretted that this was such a poor way to return a favor.

 

One way or another, Avon would be part of the plan.

 

Avon? Why did he always want to put a question mark after that name? If Marden were to give a name to this plot, it would be "Enigma" -- in honor of its, unfortunately, key element.

 

What a man to depend on.

 

Molli's World

 

There was understandable concern among the local officials and Federation occupation forces when it was announced that Lord Avon would be visiting. The blockade was now in its third standard year and while the economy so dependent upon interstellar commerce had readjusted, and there had been no serious incidents to date, it was altogether possible the Lord Protector would be greeted with little enthusiasm, if not outright hostility. Fortunately, several factors worked to prevent this. For one, it was Festival time, and the locals were loath to let anything negatively impact it. For another, there was hope that with Avon taking over, the matter would be quickly settled. If anyone could do it, it was said, it was Avon. Finally, there was the man himself. Even here, even under these circumstances, the popularity of the hero of the Galactic War and the man who killed Blake was undiminished. This was evident even as his motorcade made its way to the Capitol. The crowds lining the road could not be said to be exalting, but they were far from unfriendly. Banners were restrained (" **WELCOME LORD AVON** " was about the most exuberant), but cheerfully colored nonetheless; urging with glowing letters: " **COME TO THE FESTIVAL!** ". There were also a few " **REPENT** "s. These placards, it was hastily explained to the dour Avon, were of no significance. During the Festival, "Repent" meant about as much in social discourse as "How are you?" or "Have a nice day." Only a bore would take the word seriously. And as the entourage left the cars and ascended the steps of the Capitol building, a few even shouted his name.

So the ride from the spaceport was pleasant, allying most everyone's fears. Avon's official companions were eager to please. They and the hundreds of carefully drilled guards posted along the route showed that everything was under control. The business at hand was serious, to be sure, but there was every reason to be confident that a particular Auron would soon be in custody.

(Mykal, riding several cars back, glanced at the crowds from time to time, but preferred not to look at them. Even though the windows were outwardly reflective, he felt certain the people along the road were glaring at him. And seldom in his life had he wanted to be less conspicuous.)

 

Lord Avon, dressed in full diplomatic splendor, his two medals (stylized star clusters caught in a falcon's talons) gleaming gold, was greeted by the planetary Prime Minister, a tall, elderly man who, despite his age, managed to be quick in a way that almost suggested impatience. He had a manner that seemed to imply a particularly attractive date was waiting and could we please get on with it? Surprisingly, Avon did not bother much in the way of pleasantries himself. So once inside the PM's office, everyone remained standing. The host spoke first.

 

"We welcome you, Lord Avon. I assure you that full cooperation will be given," and he added, "as it has from the beginning."

 

"So one might hope," replied Avon.

Taken aback, the PM became firm, almost stiff. "We have been fully cooperative with the Federation," he protested. "My people wish as much as you for this difficult matter to be brought to an . . . end." He momentarily faltered for a word. "Naturally, we are convinced Molli is innocent, and if she would only surrender that would become obvious. Sadly, our broadcast appeals, our many searches, have all failed . . . but we have not given up!"

"Do you know any more about who is helping her?" Avon asked, not expecting any new information.

 

And not getting it. "Not one of our people!" the PM burst out.

"I don't recall saying it was," Avon drawled.

 

"Well, others have implied it."

 

Avon said nothing. This was getting nowhere.

"Lord Avon, please, we will not rest until she is found." It was then that the PM noticed Mykal, flanked by several Federation guards, looking very uncomfortable as he entered the office. Grateful to change the subject, he asked: "May I ask who he is?"

 

"His name is Mykal Hodos," said Avon, glancing over at Mykal. "He is to assist me in certain matters. He is an Auron."

 

"An Auron! Well, times change. Welcome, Mykal, welcome!" He went over and shook Mykal's hand vigorously. Turning to Avon, "What does this one do, may I ask?"

"I am not sure myself, but I have been informed 'this one' has talents in many fields."

 

The PM looked at Mykal again, seemingly embarrassed and the subject was dropped. "We have quite a large community of Aurons living here, as you no doubt know," the PM went on. "Molli was one . . . oh, now I understand." He studied Mykal and shook his head. "The Federation must really want her. Pity it was never clear to us just what she had done."

 

"The Federation has been known to interrogate first and determine the crime afterwards," Avon said laconically.

 

The Prime Minister looked pained. "Of course. Our esteemed President is known for a certain, shall we say, 'style' in these matters. Sad business, nevertheless. Molli was such a sweet girl. I enjoyed her singing very much. Have you heard any of her songs?"

"I've read the lyrics."

 

"Hardly the same thing! Aurons do funny things with songs, you know. It is said an accomplished Songmaster can sing a stew recipe and bring grown men to tears of romantic longing . . ." his voice trailed off. "But no matter! You'll find out. To the business at hand," he went behind his desk and dared to sit down. "So is there anything I can do?"

 

"Have the leader of the Aurons summoned," demanded Avon.

 

"No!" interjected Mykal. "I would prefer to go to her . . . " his voice trailed off.

 

The PM eyed Avon. Avon eyed Mykal. "Is there a disagreement?" he asked, smiling.

 

"Only temporarily," replied an icy Avon.

"Then I will arrange for Mykal an escort at once," he said, now enjoying himself thoroughly.

 

"Do that," said Avon. "In the meantime, Mr. Hodos and I have business to discuss."

 

As they were leaving, the entourage whipping behind them, the Prime Minister, thinking of Molli, said wistfully, "What a singer she was! Strange, isn't it? She sang to the stars and then one day the stars sang to her."

 

 

Mykal braced himself for the worst, but by the time they were alone, Avon's irritation was under control. Mykal had learned that moods with Avon passed quickly, though as a rule bad ones tended to stay longer. Indeed, what Avon said seemed so startlingly beside the point, it was as if he had forgotten the incident completely, and that was unusual: "Assure them that no harm will come to them."

 

"How can I do that?" Mykal exclaimed, both relieved and bewildered. "I can't lie. I don't know how."

 

"Since you are in the diplomatic corps, I suggest you learn. It would make both our lives easier." Avon wouldn't look at him.

 

"I'm sorry. I had to say it," said Mykal.

 

Avon had nothing more to say. He was already back on the problem.

 

In another time, the movement of the black and silver transporters across the evening sky would have been noticed and commented upon for its ominous implications. But being Festival time, the eyes of the city were elsewhere: on motorcades rehearsing for the parades, on strolling bands of singers (many barely sober), on the banners, lights and decorations of the upcoming celebration. So a few Federation aircraft heading for the distant suburbs were scarcely noticed. But to the one passenger, it was like the whole universe had him in its sights -- though as they touched down near a domehouse, he knew they were so far from the city, there was not another house for kilometers.

Upon exiting, he was escorted quickly by several guards to the main entrance. There several more guards greeted him, saluted, checked IDs. Once inside, there were more guards, and more confirmations.

 

It was tedious business, but his hostess, a short, plump woman with amused green eyes that he noticed at once, was taking it well, watching the proceedings contemptuously, as if he were a guest who had arrived too early for a party. The presence of nearly a hundred Federation troops seemed a matter of indifference to her. Her attention was focused completely on him, Mykal Hodos, Federation Ambassador-at-Large.

 

After they exchanged stiff greetings, she informed the guard captain haughtily that she wished to confer alone in the library with her visitor. The captain, who never removed his face mask, said nothing, but simply gestured his troops outside.

"Thank you," she snapped and led Mykal to the back.

They came to a huge wooden door. She held it open, and watched as his wary curiosity became astonishment. Mykal had never seen so many ancient books -- real books, not fake "antique" copies. He surveyed the rows, awe-struck, while his hostess patiently waited. He pulled one out, slowly. She evidently had counted on the reaction. Despite her misgivings, she was enjoying this.

"Which have you selected?" she asked, sitting down regally.

 

"Shakespeare," he murmured, holding it up. "The tragedies."

 

"How appropriate," she replied, glaring. "I do not know what you know of me, nor do I care, but I am only the 'keeper', you might say. These volumes do not belong to me. They came to me over the years for safekeeping. This room is more properly a museum than a library. All these books are pre-Diaspora or Singularity or whatever term people feel like using. After Vastator, Auron science preserved and protected them -- our gift to human culture. Outside you may have noticed how they repay us. But, of course, you know all of this. You are welcome to check one out, or do you believe you will not be staying long?"

 

He ignored the provocations. She continued in her museum keeper role. "Programmable microorganisms restored the paper, the lettering, even the colors. Now they keep the books preserved -- as you no doubt know, the organisms ignore anything except book material. Yet humans fear to touch these books: only Aurons have no such fear."

 

Mykal reluctantly closed the book and returned it to the shelf. "Auron as yourself."

 

"I wonder," she scrutinized him. "What is your talent, other than duplicity?"

 

Mykal kept his cool as he took a seat. "Patience. I was bred to put up with the most severe of irritations."

She laughed. "No wonder you are in Lord Avon's employ! Still, in fairness to you, I gather he has quite a following among younger Aurons; they seem to trust him, though for the life of me I cannot grasp why. But you certainly have gone a good deal further than most."

 

He moved to cut this short. "May I ask, Eldress, what you know about Molli?"

 

"You may ask, provided you don't call me 'Eldress'! I take it you mean her disappearance. Nothing that I haven't already told them," she gestured angrily to the outside, "several times. I am, frankly, much more interested in you. Why do you trust him?"

 

Mykal hesitated. "I don't believe I am mistaken, if that is what you mean. He did save my life; that much is true," he said.

"It's the 'why' of that action that concerns me," she muttered, sitting beside him. "Lord Avon has demonstrated a remarkable gift for survival over the years. He is not likely to risk his life for someone he had just met. Sorry, but you don't look worthy of his attention. Nor, might I add, do you look like a person who would betray his people." She waited for his reaction.

 

And got it. "Lord Avon also tried to save Auron," he burst out, "in case you have forgotten. I want to help him. There is no betrayal in that."

 

"Yes," she sighed, "So we've all heard. Do you truly believe that is the full story? Have you gotten a second opinion?"

 

Mykal shook his head, but added, though not clear why, perhaps as a confession: "I have spoken with Servalan."

"Her! And lived to tell about it," she said bitterly. "Well, the Day of Judgment must truly be near!" For sarcasm, this woman could teach Avon things.

 

"Would you tell me about Molli, even if you've told it many times before," he said wearily.

 

She shrugged. "I met her only once. She was beautiful, charming, quite independent, with a remarkable, clear voice. Many men wanted her."

 

"Lord Avon is not here to ask for a date," he replied sourly.

"No, I suppose not," she sighed. "More's the pity. For a man so skilled at evading the past, she might make for a difficult reminder. Which brings us to his master," she said in disgust. "Molli was receiving some very strange messages. We do not know from whom or where. They made no sense. Did the Supreme Commander tell you why she is so afraid of them?"

 

"No, and I prefer not to speculate," Mykal said quietly.

 

"Such wisdom in one so young! Well, neither do I," she waved to the walls. "Mykal, I warn you. Years ago there was a man named Blake who led an inspired and, some might say, foolish rebellion against the tyranny that rules us. He did it for all of us, Aurons as well as humans. And he came within a hair's breadth of winning. Had he pressed his victory after Star One -- and it was his victory not hers -- things might be very different now. But then he disappeared under strange circumstances. Within two years he and his followers, with one exception, were dead. That exception remains, in service to his enemies. Do remember that."

He stood. The woman clearly had nothing informative to say, but she had given him an opening, and he was determined to take it. If defending Avon was going to be his lot in life, well, so be it. "Lord Avon is not the criminal you make him out to be. You refuse to acknowledge that he is all that stands between us and the Federation. And has done so for years. He will find Molli, and when he does, I assure you, he will protect her as he does the rest of us."  _How I wish I believed that!_

She looked up at him, depressed. "Do you think I know more than I am telling?"

 

Mykal was blunt. "I think you know even less."

 

For the first time she looked at him with respect, her face softening. "I am sorry Mykal, for you and for all of us. There is nothing I can or would do to help him, but I wish I could help you. Yes, I am certain he will find her. There is always a feeling about him of some inevitable disaster looming."

 

She added, sincerely, as she stood to escort him out. "The strain on you must be terrible. I understand the Hodos family were always considered outsiders, even among the Auronar; that they were quite conservative, very close, very guarded. Correct me if I am mistaken, but they never approved of cloning, though they accepted many of the other programs of genetic engineering? Is that correct? Is that part of your alienation from your people? You don't have to answer."

 

"My family," he replied firmly, "believed that the evolution of intelligence was far more crucial than the program to develop telepathy, which after centuries was never a full success. It was not a popular opinion, but if you're trying to imply that impaired my loyalty to my people, you are mistaken."

"I did worry, " she said, hesitantly, "but now that I have met you I realize you are doing what you think is best. I apologize for suggesting otherwise. I was only trying to find what might have drawn you to trust that man. I had no family on Auron -- the pain for you must be terrible. Perhaps they felt they had to be close, given their contrary nature," she smiled, but the effort at reconciliation went nowhere. "I respect them for doing what they thought was right. And I respect you."

 

She held out her hand. //You must be very lonely.// "You were the first Hodos to leave Auron, weren't you?"

"No," replied Mykal, taking it weakly, "I was only the last."

 

 

It was late in the evening, still very warm, the hum of the air conditioners sweeping the air, when Mykal returned. Avon, reviewing the database files was informed of the fact by an interrupt message on the monitor. He acknowledged with a keystroke, but gave no notice when Mykal entered the room. He wouldn't have noticed had Mykal's hair been on fire. The man is made of wood, Mykal thought, but fought the feeling of intimidation, and stood there until Avon finally deemed to notice him. What Avon saw was a young man damp from the humid air, emotionally exhausted, but otherwise in his usual wondering-what-to-do-next mode. No one had expected the meeting to produce anything new and the look on Mykal's face confirmed that was indeed the result.

 

Avon, however, was not concerned. He now had access to every bit of computerized data on the planet and he was confident the Molli problem would at last be solved. During the hours he had been alone, he had pulled in everything he could find on the woman: rumors, sightings, guesses and whatever else the heuristics could deliver. It was more than an intellectual pursuit, though that in itself would have been sufficient. It was the coming to grips with one element of his past that in one remote corner of his mind fascinated him. He had never expected this. He was certain Molli was alive and that he could find her and whoever was helping her. But that would be only the beginning. They would be his prisoners then. They would tell him what he wanted to know.

"No doubt you're eager to tell me something of vital importance but can't quite bring yourself to do so," Avon said in top form, his attention fixed on the monitor.

 

"It was an interesting talk," Mykal said quietly.

"Did you lie a lot?"

 

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "She says that there has been no contact with Molli since her disappearance. She also says they wouldn't tell us even if they did know where she was. And it's not just Auron. There is still a lot of emotion about . . ."

 

Avon frowned, looking up. "Auron. Auron and Servalan. You can say the names, or do you worry I'm easily offended?"

 

Mykal ignored that. "I don't like doing this," he said. "I want you to know that. These are my people. I am only trying to minimize the inevitable cost."

 

"No other reason? I'm glad we're clear on that."

 

"I would think that is sufficient. But yes, I am grateful for what you did," he said.

 

"I will try not to extract too high a price for your gratitude. I would hate to see you regret being alive."  _No, it was not easy to offend Avon._

Mykal looked more unhappy and frustrated. "You know, people keep warning me about you. Do you ever feel that you are constantly running into a past against which one is helpless? What I am trying to say is that Cally was a hero to my people; that puts me in a very difficult position. I would think it would do the same to you."

 

Avon stopped. "The position you describe is one I have been in for several years." He added, as an afterthought. "I know the feeling. I ignore it."

 

I wonder, Mykal thought.

"Did they at least give you any indication that Molli is alive?" Avon asked, getting back to work.

 

"'What is life?'" Mykal replied, mirthlessly.

 

Avon looked at him sharply. "You keep saying that phrase. Geir said something like it also. Why? What do you mean by it?"

 

Mykal was surprised at the reaction. For once, he had penetrated the armor; he had registered. "It was a game Dr. Geir and I played," he explained. "Whenever we would have a discussion, eventually we would get to the 'big' questions: life, death, existence, all that. He could never resist the metaphysical; he thought it was his greatest weakness as a scientist. We had a standing joke -- well, it was funny to him. I don't know what he meant, but I always played along."

"Tell me, or do you doubt my sense of humor," Avon insisted.

 

"No," said Mykal, "never that. Anyway, one of us would ask the set question; the other would give the standard answer. One would ask, 'What is Life?'; the other would respond: 'A pattern in infinity'."

 

Avon was thunderstruck.

"You've heard the expression before?" Mykal asked, astonished at the reaction.

 

"Yes," Avon said slowly, "I've heard it before. The circumstances are of no concern." He paused for a long time, then asked: "What was the answer to the question of 'death'?"

 

"Dr. Geir had no answer for that."

 

It was almost noon when Jenna and Molli arrived at the terminus, arriving along with hundreds of frantic pilgrims, yelling, shouting, excited to near panic. The departure of the monorail had been repeatedly delayed and the Federation troops, guns ready, trying to verify every ID, were not helping matters. The two women wore loose white, their veiled faces (signifying the status of being unmarried) were covered from a sun now near zenith, but they had not experienced anything like this discomfort since they first left the city. They struggled to stay together, but the crowd of screaming, running children, and pushing, cursing adults, kept threatening to separate them. It was desperation time. This far from the capitol, the monorail would only stop once a week.

 

Doing her best to ignore the turmoil, Jenna's attention focused on the station master. His help had deserted him days before and alone now, he was trying to manage the torrent. Alternately terrified and fierce, he looked like a man who at any moment would run or attack. Quite understandable, she thought, since a good many people wanted the monorail loaded now!

The Federation officer in charge, his gun ready, was also obviously overwhelmed.

(He had been warned about the Festival, but had never expected anything like this. His troops tried to beat back the crowd. He considered shooting guns into the air to get order, but on reflection, not implying that was the actual thought process, realized it was not the brightest of ideas).

Jenna had counted on this. She held tightly to Molli's hand as the noon signal blew. The whine of the engine went up in pitch; the crowd surged forward again. She pulled Molli over and they linked arms tightly, as the maelstrom neared panic.

"We might be in luck," she shouted into her ear. "Look at the one with the gun," she pointed. "He's near giving up."

Molli nodded, feeling sympathy for him and not knowing why. This man, she knew, had been ordered to check everyone for a fugitive, black-haired woman.

 

And he had every intention of performing that duty, but his orders were equally clear on avoiding incidents. Nor did it make sense, he thought, that she would ever return to the city under these circumstances.

 

His eyes darted over the crowd. He tried to ignore the station master. His men were near their limits, as was the crowd. Someone near the ticket counter who had passed those limits had was being dragged away by the guards.

 

Molli watched in anguish. She wanted to telesend to Jenna, but there were too many people. Was all this worth it? But it was her idea. Molli may have set the strategy; Jenna alone determined the tactics.

The engineer yelled that they were falling behind schedule and another brawl started. Jenna tightened her grip; another surge and both nearly fell. The temperature gauge of the station went up a degree.

 

Exasperated, the officer pulled out his gun. He signaled to the station master, then shouted: "Load!" Jenna smiled: "Hold on!"

Everything according to plan! Everyone desperate, the solders terrified, the crowd roared past, sweeping the two women forward as if caught in a monstrous wave. They fought for balance, were crushed, and finally were carried into the monorail. There they managed to break free and ran to the back. With their packs firmly gripped, they searched for a seat, their heads low, whispering.

(It was not uncommon for women to travel alone from the far provinces to the Festival. Occasionally, they did so to find husbands: women in search of mates was one of the many roles they were prepared to play, though admittedly Molli was more persuasive in that than her companion. Jenna decided that "curious travelers never having been to the big city" worked better.)

 

A few minutes later, far to the rear of the monorail, they came to a man who had been saving a seat, a man looking very impatient, but who was surprisingly gracious when the blond woman and her "ill cousin", pleaded with him for a place to sit. That too was an effective role. The man, touched by Molli's condition, impressed with their gratitude, vanished into the crowd. They collapsed together as the monorail began moving.

 

Molli sat by the window, trying to rest, her face pressed against the cool glass, her reflection in weary agreement. In truth she was not far from the state Jenna had described. She had slept poorly the night before and now heat exhaustion was overcoming her.

There was also another problem, one she dared not mention.

 

Jenna alternately glanced at her and watched and listened for the harsh orders of security personnel. She was certain none would show: too many of the passengers did not have tickets and there was no turning back now. There was only the loud talking and incessant shrieking of the "pilgrims".

The monorail went faster. Two teen-age girls with their mother were seated opposite. They were exchanging pictures excitedly. The pictures were of Avon. One of the girls said excitedly to her mother that she was going to have the Lord Protector autograph it. Now it was Jenna's turn to feel nauseous.  _I can never escape you. It would only be fitting if you could never escape me_.

Jenna offered Molli something to eat, but she shook her head. Her face was pained. She starred outside as the countryside rushed past. The breeze of the air conditioning cooled them. Ever since making her decision, it seemed to Jenna that Molli had become more withdrawn. Once, alarmed, Jenna she had seen her weep; Molli would not say why. She had seemed to recover, but now looked worse than ever. Was she reconsidering?

 

There was a high-pitched, reed-like sound to the monorail as it flashed across the land, boring through the magnetic rings with a blur. Accelerating rapidly to its peak velocity, it was now moving at nearly a thousand kilometers an hour. There were mountains in the distance and on the highest elevations Jenna could see snow, coral bright, speckled with vegetation in the noon sun. They cut through a pass, then shot out across a broad undulating plain thick with ancient craters, worn and smooth. Jenna glanced at her watch. The capitol was less than an hour away. She wanted to point out one of the peaks, a landmark in the distance, but Molli was sleeping. Jenna relented: she would need her rest. Let her sleep. She gently removed Molli's pack.

 

( _Molli heard . . . ? ? ? . . . the voice that had sent the messages. It was like a voice calling from a cave: so strong, so clear now, but there were no messages this time. Just her name echoing; her mind falling down into that cave . . ._ )

 

The pack was loose; the items buried within it carelessly. Jenna shook her head. She would redo it. A final favor for a friend. It was but a few seconds later that Jenna found a folded note crushed inside. A note addressed to Lord Avon.

( _Molli could not fight it. It was overpowering, yet it seemed to be only testing the link between them. Why? It had never doubted the connection before. What did it want?!_ )

 

The land melted, flowed past, then was gone in a smear of brown under a light blue sky. Cottages in the distance flashed by, roads, farms, a space port of silver spires and golden-winged Federation shuttles.

 

Jenna held on to the pack, not looking at Molli. With each minute, the crowd in the cabin, many were standing, grew more exciting, more restless.

 

. . . At some point, the monorail began decelerating. At some point the note was open, her fingers not touching it directly, but the writing visible to her. She closed the pack. She now had the chance. A final gift from her friend. . .

 

When they arrived, she jostled Molli, who awoke, startled. She forced a smile. Jenna smiled back, gave her the pack, and asked how she slept. Her face pained, Molli murmured something. Jenna did not understand but did not ask her to repeat.

Leaving the monorail was only slightly easier than boarding it, but Molli, recovering, noticed that Jenna retained her confidence, though in an oddly nervous way, so unlike her. It was probably to be expected. Finality was beating down on them both. Jenna asked how she was feeling. Molli nodded, said nothing. They held their packs tightly and were pulled along by the crowd. They moved, heads low, faces covered, out of the station until they could hear one another. Guards were trying to check IDs, but they had the same exasperated, overwhelmed look of the guards when they boarded the monorail. They were not a problem.

The station was only a few kilometers from the Festival field. Banners were everywhere, and everywhere there were preachers, hucksters, and the even more disreputable. Inevitable calls to "Repent" stung the air. Molli looked in the distance. She pointed to the direction of the Festival field, to the black towers thrust up like derricks. The way was clear; she had her bearings. Jenna waited. "It's going to rain," she remarked.

 

"Will I see you again?" Molli asked.

 

"No," Jenna replied.

 

"Will you give up your plan to kill him?"

 

"Yes," Jenna murmured.

 

Molli swung her pack behind her and faced her companion of three years. "I will forget you," she said, her voice cold, distant. "In a few minutes, you will be a memory; a few minutes after that, you will be nothing. Will it be the same for you?"

 

"Naturally," agreed Jenna, their hands gripping firmly.

 

//Good bye, Jenna Stannis.//

 

"Good bye, Molli."

 

We note that though this parting conversation was admirable for its brevity, it was even more remarkable for the fact that seldom were there more falsehoods spoken per second, even by the standards of Federation discourse.

 

In the room of Central Control, Servalan tried to relax. The decision was a good one (as to be expected). It would solve several problems (without a doubt). It would enable her to dispense with an irritant (finally). And, of course, it would tighten her grip on the Front (so much for that).

 

She was concerned, however, that her Special Services had perhaps become a bit lax of late, even complacent in this matter. Marden should have been tripped long ago. Perhaps it was time for a shakeup, but that would be decided later. The inspection would give her the information needed as the inevitable was hastened along once more. Naturally, it was gratifying to her that Avon would do the legwork.

 

But Avon was also a source of the anxiety (again). Since he had first submitted to her will over seven years ago, this would be their greatest separation. The prospect of him being some 10,000 light-years away was not a happy one. Still, he would be watched very closely (obviously) and after all where was there for him to go? As assurance, that would suffice. She could smile at that. He would be watched; they would watch him. Oh, the slick logic of power! Oh, how excessive, and yet, how exquisite!

She punched in a code and a prepared screen appeared on the monitor. She entered her password, the destination and priority of the message. She selected the code phrase and entered it. Then she logged out and snapped off the monitor.

Field headquarters at the Front received the message at once. A bored operator became suddenly alert when the advance code came in and the warning buzzer went off. A direct communique from the Supreme Commander! He quickly inserted a memory cube, copied the message before it erased (he had 15 seconds to do so), and ran down the hall. He would now have five minutes before the cube dissolved and only one man would have the key to unlock the message. Breathless, he handed it to another guard, who in turn rushed into the anteroom of Marden's chambers. The Fleet Commander who had been asleep awoke at once upon hearing the alarm. It could only be a message from the Center and one of such priority that it could have only one source. He hoped it only had one meaning. The cube was placed in his hand. The guard departed at once. Marden inserted it in the monitor, entered his code, and read. It was a single sentence:

 

**"GRANT TO US SUCH STRENGTH AND PROTECTION, AS MAY SUPPORT US IN ALL DANGERS, AND CARRY US THROUGH ALL TEMPTATIONS."**

 

**S.**

 

Despite himself, he laughed. Lord Avon was coming. And since her message had been received in the Com Room, the rumors would be all over the fleets in a few hours.

She suspected something -- it went without saying. She was, after all, far more skilled at playing these games. But the fact that he was still alive argued that she might not yet have guessed the extent of his plans.

Of course, there were other possibilities.

 

Soaring through the databases, Avon continued his pursuit. Searching for an overlooked lead, straining for a clue. He would not be defeated. Sheer force of curiosity would conquer. The problem alone would drive him; nothing else was needed.

The data was impressive in its extent, vast in its depth: genetic, historical, psychological, personal. Molli was in there somewhere, he was sure. When he found her in the database, capturing her outside would be trivial.

 

A blinking "URGENT" suddenly appeared on the monitor. That meant a guard wanted to see him.  _I'll kill you,_ he thought, irritated. He jabbed in an affirmative response; glowered as the messenger entered the room. The Special Services man appeared frightened, unusually apologetic.

 

"Forgive me, My Lord, but," he held out a piece of paper wrapped in plastic; held it like it was a scorpion. "We received this note. It's hand-written. It might be important."

 

Avon wordlessly took it. The guard closed the door quickly, silently behind him. Avon opened the crumpled note.

 

_My Lord Avon:_

 

I will be at the Festival tomorrow evening, 8:00 pm, for opening ceremonies. I request that I be permitted to sing one song prior to my arrest. I will answer your questions to the best of my knowledge. I am alone and will offer no resistance.

 

If you choose not to honor my request, I accept that.

 

I also ask that I be permitted to surrender to you in person.

 

Molli

 

Working rapidly, Avon had the note scanned and compared against samples of her handwriting. The computer began returning analyses on the screen. There was no doubt: the writer was Molli. The paper was crumpled, implying the note might have been held at one point in sweaty palms. He scanned now for biology, the distinctive DNA of the Auronar. The machine confirmed it. Then he checked for deception. The pattern of sentences, words, and emphasis, the stress of character and line. The machine judged to the best of its programmed ability that the writer was not lying.

 

So the orders went out, for always remember: when Lord Avon says "Do this", it is performed. Teleport operators orbiting overhead were alerted. Messages to the Special Services and Planetary police were sent: messages firm, brief, explicit. Molli had been located, or more precisely, it was known where she would be located. Festival field was to be surrounded, a command post seized and prepared, but operations were not to be disrupted.

 

Then the final order, the one that would caused the greatest dismay: watch Molli -- but take no action until he commanded it. He would handle the arrest in person. They obeyed, for the orders were in the name of Servalan.

 

Within minutes, undercover agents were swarming out onto the highways, into the rainy evening, converging onto the field. Within hours, the area was surrounded, observed by hundreds, then thousands, of alert and highly suspicious eyes.

 

. . . And one old agent, a planetary cop near retirement, who loathed the Federation (though he had a soft spot for Avon -- "Best of a bad lot," he would grumble to himself), read the orders with wrinkled eyes and obeyed with stiff reluctance. He had endured this case for three years and had had more than enough. There had been false alarms before, he reminded himself with disgust, riding in unhappy silence to the rain-soaked field.

Strolling in the grass and mud among the awakening crowd, patrolling in the early morning sun in the reddening sky, two young black-uniformed Special Services agents were never far from his side. They were contemptuous of everything and everyone around them. Yet they frequently asked him questions, trusting his judgment in ways he hardly did himself. They had been his charges for several months. He kept them out of trouble. He called them his "Boys". They called him "Old One."

He had been on this case since Molli disappeared. He knew the eyewitness accounts perfectly, especially of the unknown woman who had fled with Molli. He was confident neither would be found. The Federation always won the war, but this was a battle that would be denied them.

 

. . . Walking and musing and never dreaming that before the day was done, he would be a hero to that Federation . . .

 

Jenna, ambivalent Jenna, knew she should get away. The Federation wanted Molli, not her, a woman they believed dead for years. An occupation force would be left behind, but she was confident she would have little difficulty evading it. She would then make her way as far from the Center as possible and keep moving into the Big Deep. But that would mean an old score would remain unsettled, a score that had become far too crucial in her life. She wanted revenge. She would have it. The note had given her the chance.

Molli would understand; in time, possibly even forgive. It is easier to forgive the dead.

 

In doing so, she would betray Molli, but that was justified considering the nature of her target. What reasonable alternative was there? He was far too heavily guarded anywhere else. Fate agreed and had given her a hand; she was hardly going to settle for a hangnail. With luck, the man who killed Blake would be given triumphant justice indeed.

So she kept telling herself.

 

There would be a cost. If it were proved that the notorious Jenna Stannis alone had killed Avon, and if Servalan were convinced of that, the planet might be spared. Then again, it might not. But murder on such a scale would be on the hands of the Supreme Commander, not her.

 

So she kept telling herself.

Jenna watched the antics of the preachers and their audience: the vulgar, the innocent, the naive. One particular agitated preacher, who had been giving graphic descriptions of the evils of drink and lust was becoming anxious as his audience began drifting away now that he was getting into less racy prohibitions. He kept jabbing a finger to the sky, to the crowd, to her. "Have you been saved by the Tree of Life?", he roared. "Life is infinite. To murder one person is the same as murdering a world. To betray trust is the same as to murder. Judgment is with the Tree. If you judge, prepare to be judged! Repent! I say! Repent!" he kept repeating. The old wheezer was more galling than effective, yet a few around her were praying loud and terribly.

"It is the dreaded moment!" he said, the finger shooting straight for the heavens. "Behold! The end of all existence is at hand! The Tree of Life is blossoming! The dead have returned!"

 

There was lightening in his eyes and thunder in his voice as the tormented sea of humanity flowed past down the road. Jenna gripped her pack, felt the gun press heavily against her side, and followed them all to the Festival of Judgment.

 

The Festival of Judgment

 

Thousands of years before, a meteor had crashed into this plain. White hot, all cosmic violence, earthquakes, and red flowing lava, the result had been a steaming crater kilometers across. The crater cooled from the rains and filled with blown soil. The rains eroded it; summer heat and winter cold cracked its surface. Then plants formed a glaze of life in the rich mixture of soil and eroded lava. Over the millennia, the crater became a shallow, gentle depression. And for the humans who would eventually arrive, it would be found to be the perfect setting for an outdoor arena.

 

Now, in the center of what had been that crater was a stage complex: amphitheater, orchestra pit, buildings housing workshops, equipment stores, generators and control rooms. Behind it, a vast graded lot for local transportation, surface and air. But to a visitor the most impressive sight, spread along the radii fanning out from the center, were the dozens of amplifier and lighting towers: black spider-web spires, thrust up a hundred meters for the shortest of them. They lit the field at night, keeping it safe. They gave it splendid acoustics. They had to: the noise when the field was fully packed could, it was said, disturb the dead.

 

 

After the Auron courier (it had not been easy to find one) had taken the note late that evening, Molli went directly to the arena, moving with the flow of the crowds, just one more Birnam tree on the road to Dunsinane. Jenna had taught her plenty about self-defense, but the last thing she wanted was an incident. If she were not arrested during the night, she felt confident that Lord Avon had trusted her and that would be a good sign. He would have read the note and trusted her. That would mean she would have a chance.

During the night, she stayed with a group of women who had traveled thousands of kilometers for the first time in their lives to the Festival. Molli was relieved to discover they were so far out of touch, they had not even heard their planet was besieged.

 

In the early morning, she left before they awoke and made her move. It was not a spectacular entrance as such things go, but it did the job and the effect was sensational enough. Approaching the stage, she was stopped by one of the private police assigned to keep spectators away. The guard, who thought he was merely shooing away yet another too curious spectator, just about jumped out of his skin when he recognized her. She calmed him and was quickly escorted to the office of the stage manager, who was not in, but who did come rather quickly when he was informed who was waiting. Understandably, the man, short with a twitching mustache, nervous under the best of conditions, was beside himself upon seeing her. That is to say, he was terrified, as he had every right to be, especially when she told him what she had done.

He swore the guard to secrecy and dismissed him. Then he studied Molli. Her face was tanned, taut, and her veiled eyes looked sadder, harder, but despite everything she had hardly aged. He had always loved Molli, as so many had, but now he only wanted to bury his head in his hands. In a few hours at most, Federation forces would occupy the field; unpleasant individuals would be pounding on his door. Always prone to the worst fantasies, he saw troops invading the stage, guns blazing, the arena in flames, bodies everywhere . . .

Fortunately, Molli was more objective. She was, in fact, way ahead of him. She explained that with nearly a million people camped on the field, Federation Security was unlikely to take any action that might result in a riot and possibly losing her. Servalan had been restrained (so far) and with Lord Avon in charge that policy should continue. To the inconsolable, it would have to do.

 

Had she really sent him (Avon!) the note?

She had. She continued. If Avon granted the request, and it appeared he had, they would be given time. He nodded. She began her instructions. Make up artists and costumers were summoned; then light technicians, electrical workers, programmers. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, until the room was filled with people, the transformation began; by mid-morning it was complete. And it was thorough, Molli standing firm throughout, surprising even herself, until the job was done right.

A new, albeit temporary, surfeit of "Molli"s were born -- several women now bore a striking resemblance to her. Outside, the stage and interior lighting began to experience "problems", which sadly could not be corrected, until say, 8:00 that evening. Molli had lost her uniqueness, was very much back in hiding, but in the confines of her world had regained her identity.

 

So throughout the morning, she rehearsed where places could be found, napped when time permitted. She was with actors, performers, people of the theater, people she knew well and liked. They were worried, but they trusted her, and she trusted them. She had a plan everyone was assured. And it seemed a good omen that she made it back for the start of the Festival. Being actors, they believed in omens. They were her true family once and for a brief time would be again.

 

By noon, the rumors were flying, first confined to the stage complex, inevitably they were soon out among the spectators. Rumors heightened as more Federation officers began asking questions, as more transporters landed disgorging troops. She was told in harsh whispers to avoid certain areas. Those areas grew in number. She saw less of her "doubles" and after a few hours, they were gone completely. She tried to contact the manager, but by noon she was informed that he was no longer available. Shortly thereafter an entire wing of the complex was sealed. More transports landed. In hiding, she watched as scores of Special Services agents moved with grim purposefulness through the complex. Only idealism and determination kept her going now.

 

The voice inside her mind was silent. She forgot about it for now.

 

Through dark passageways, she kept moving, forgetting about rest. The songs were her being and her meaning. The Festival was her life. It would not be denied her.

 

All through the afternoon, the crowd slumbered and ate, drank and played, yelled and cursed, as the stage was occupied by a succession of preachers spreading the word one last time; by jugglers and musicians, comedians, bad and worse, by acts unclassifiable. The crowd jeered and laughed and hooted. But as the long afternoon wore on, as the rumors spread, as the Federation aircraft hummed overhead, the mood turned increasingly solemn and occasionally sour. The Festival beast was awakening. Amateur hour was wearing out its welcome. One evangelist who should have known better discovered this when in a fit of soulful passion, he vowed to run into the opening ceremonies. Several hundred thousand voices and a few dozen mud balls urged him to reconsider. He did.

 

At 7:30 p.m., the lights of the towers and the stage came on, flooding the amphitheater in radiance and sweeping over the field in frantic white ovals. Amplifiers screeched and boomed and were answered by a universal shouting and clapping.

 

(It was on one of the amplifier towers, only a few hundred meters from the stage, that Jenna waited. It was an excellent vantage point: the view high, unobstructed. It was comfortable too: the early evening was still hot, hot and humid enough to make her feel occasionally faint, but the breeze from the cooling fans was a blessing.

 

If fate were to give her this chance, if Avon were to appear on stage, she would have one, maybe two clear shots. And then, judging from the number of Special Services troops, it would be over for them both.)

 

The shouts and cheers grew ever louder. Part revival, more circus, the Festival of Judgment was about to begin.

It began with an advance shower of meteors bombarded the pale twilight. A dozen streaks raked the sky: the crowd "Ooh-ed". A boloid exploded with a sound like thunder: they applauded. In quick answer a distance away, a sky rocket shot up, then fizzled, popped, and sputtered miserably. They laughed as it fell to an embarrassing plop.

 

At that moment the master of ceremonies walked on stage. He apologized for the delay ("BOO!"), promised his remarks would be brief (cheers), and nervously added that there was going to be a surprise (silence). He glanced to stage right where she waited. "She has been away for awhile," he said, his voice rising, "but she has not forgotten us, as I am sure we have not forgotten her, so please welcome . . . ," and he briskly exited the stage. And it was then Molli entered.

 

For the first and only time in memory, silence greeted the opening performer of the Festival. Dressed in a flowing white gown streaked with silver, Molli, exuberant as she was nervous, stumbled slightly, but managed nevertheless to make a million people stone still.

 

Jenna held her breath, expecting guards to rush on stage (she was not alone in that), but nothing happened.

 

"As you may know," Molli said into the microphone, her voice echoing across the field, "I have been away for a while, but I never miss the Festival." There was uncertain applause. "My time has not been idle. I have written a new song, and I would like to dedicate it to a friend." She turned to stage left, where Avon was waiting. How sad his face, she thought.

One hour previous, Avon, Mykal, and several dozen elite of the Special Services had teleported into the command post set up by the advance teams. By then the complex was under Federation control. They forcibly took technicians and performers out of the Festival operations, until it was being run by only a closely supervised skeleton crew. But they obeyed the unusual orders and avoided the areas where it was thought Molli was likely to be.

The Stage Manager, when informed that Lord Avon was coming, had been most cooperative in providing information, but he steadfastly insisted he did not know Molli's whereabouts. By the time Avon arrived, the question was moot.

 

Surrounded by his guards, the Lord Protector was ushered to one side of the stage while more troops closed in on the other. Mykal found himself herded with the rest of the actors and support personnel off to the side. When Molli walked onstage, she couldn't have fallen into the orchestra pit, without landing in the arms of the Federation.

 

She took the microphone then turned towards the audience and began singing, without music, the first two verses of her song.

 

" _They were the heroes of our time . . ._

Where did they go?

When the heavens turned red above

to drown the ground below.

They who fought to make us free

Those we lost in the end

They who are a part of me,

They were my friends . . .

_If time is a winding river,_

If life a tortured tree,

Then hope alone is the giver

of our eternity.

When the stars will rain,

When the universe will die,

Then they will return again,

To lead us through the sky.

Then she stopped. More meteors flared above. A few in the crowd applauded; most were silent. She grinned. "My, you're a quiet lot! Let's see what we can do to liven you up for the last verse! As you know, there has been a lot of interest in my whereabouts." There was some nervous laughter.

(Jenna tensed; pulled the gun carefully out of the pack.)

"I haven't received so much attention in years." More laughter. Avon, ominous, studied her. "Not every girl is pursued by the Lord Protector."

 

Gasps. "So I have composed the last verse for him." She held out one arm and turned to Avon and without the slightest irony said: "And I would like that gentleman to join me as I sing it."

 

His guards were doing all they could to restrain themselves. Voices shouted in his ear: arrest this mad woman! Now! Mykal could only shake his head. Watching her on a monitor, he found himself captivated. "She's like an angel," he said tenderly. Cally reborn, in voice and face, in brave and foolish spirit.

 

Avon understandably was not in a tender mood. He gestured furiously for silence. He waited. Mykal, along with the stage personnel and performers, watched him, ignoring the monitor.

Molli was prepared. "Now he is rumored to be shy," she said slyly, "so he might need a little coaxing." She grinned and turned to the audience, stretching out both arms now. "So I would like you to show our Lord Protector we mean no harm. Everybody, rise to your feet! Repeat after me, 'A-Von'. Again, 'A-von' . . !" And after several hesitant seconds, everybody did. Far in the distance the shouting and foot-stomping began. It rolled over the field like an earthquake; broke on stage like a tidal wave. Louder it got, gaining in confidence and strength. It became a pounding, deafening chant of "A-VON!", "A-VON!", "A-VON!" . . .

 

The individual in question, his arms crossed, his face glaring, glanced to his guards. They were violently indicating "NO!" He was inclined to agree with them, but he had not expected this and that amused him. Nor had he loved this woman's sister, but he had never ceased to be fascinated by her, and curiosity remained a flaw in him without hope of redemption.  _What the he_ ll.

He broke loose and as they watched frantically, Kerr Avon, First Citizen, Lord Protector, hero of the galaxy, walked onstage to the roaring crowd.

 

(Mykal thought sourly: had he murdered their mothers, they would have done no less.)

 

He did not acknowledge them. He went directly up to Molli and put his hand firmly over the microphone.

He said: "I arrest you in the name of the Federation."

She replied: "I surrender in the name of all that is good."

 

She put her hand on his and despite himself, he let her remove it from the mike. With uneven eagerness, both turned to the crowd and a million people went crazy. Everyone knew the blockade would soon be over.

She waited, gesturing repeatedly for quiet. Gradually, the crowd stilled. Avon looked to his guards at both wings. They stayed.

 

(Jenna steadied her gun.)

 

"We need to talk," he said.

 

//I'm free. Anytime,// she smiled.

 

The heavens opened. A thousand neon needles, stellar splinters falling, etched the evening sky. And Molli in her liquid crystal voice sang:

 

_"He is the last of them,_

The bitterness of his fate,

Has brought him here among us,

The life that was so great.

But if the greatness now is sorrow,

And if our future is to fear,

And if history is to blame,

Upon his face it does so burn

I would still follow him tomorrow,

His life my only aim."

 

Aim, indeed. Jenna had Avon in her sight. He was in range; Molli scarcely a meter. Jenna's finger moved. She could kill him.  _Now._

 

And had he been alone, so it would have been. But the sight of them together, (she could not focus) brought the past rushing forward; the years gripped her hand. She remembered the man she abandoned (he had insisted she go); was hopelessness overwhelmed. The gun lowered. It was the console of despair:  _Who am I to judge?_

Hesitation saved her. Her palms grew slick; she could not hold the gun. The cheering of the crowd pressed upon her. She was shaking. She closed her eyes, moist.

At that moment, the aged planetary guard, passing with the two troopers, glanced up and saw her. He grabbed for his pistol, then saw her gun waver.

With one heave he leaped on the tower, grabbed her arm and pulled her down over his head, the two falling together into the mud. Her grip was not strong; her wrist twisted, the gun flew into the air. Someone shrieked as they crashed together. Ordinarily, he would have been no match for her, but she did not struggle. He got up as the "boys" pinned her down, their guns drawn. For the first time he saw her face -- the face of legend. It could not be, but there she was, muddied, older, but still Jenna Stannis. He pushed them off her furiously and pulled the dazed Jenna to her feet. "It's Jenna Stannis, idiots! You must have been in diapers," he growled; adding in exasperation to their uncomprehending looks: "Blake's woman." They looked at her, curious, like they couldn't place her, but knew they should. They handcuffed her roughly. Guards came running over; there was more shouting. Soon there was quite a parade heading for the command center, the new heroes of our time in the lead.

 

The song finished, a beaming Molli waved to the crowd until Avon grabbed her firmly by the wrist. He pointed to the side. She nodded: //The show must go on.// "This show is over." With a final wave, to applause like thunder, she went with him.

The guards swarmed over her. She was handcuffed; rude hands searched her for weapons.

 

Mykal struggled to get closer, pushing through the guards as a mob of Federation agents rushed to the command post, Avon in the lead. Outside, the chant of "A-VON" went on as the emcee struggled to return order. There would be no encore.

It would be so simple now. Lord Avon, his prisoner, the Special Services, and bringing up the rear, Mykal, would teleport to the orbiting command ship, the operation complete. They reached the command post, there was a flurry of salutes, Avon giving orders rapidly. He entered the room ahead of the others. And found Jenna waiting for him.

 

"Jenna!" Molli cried. Avon looked at her, shocked, then almost pleased in a disturbing way ( _so the fates contrive_ ). So this was Molli's "professional assistance". "I might have guessed," he muttered.

Three men pushed her forward. The older of the three informed him: "Caught her on a tower. Could have cut you down," he jabbed a finger at Avon, "No doubt about it, Sir. Jenna, isn't it?" Avon nodded. "I must add, Sir, it did seem she was having second thoughts when I grabbed her. I urge you to consider that at her trial," he said glancing about, "assuming there is one."

 

Molli was desperate. To Avon: "Please, she told me she was going to leave." To Jenna: "Why?! Why did you lie to me? Do you know what could have happened!"

 

Jenna starred at Avon, ignoring Molli. "I had a score to settle. But it wasn't as easy as I thought. Around him, things never are."

 

"I am sorry," Molli said in despair, to no one in particular.

 

Avon said nothing. There was a deceptive peace about him. The three who captured Jenna were quickly ushered out. Teleport bracelets were slapped on the prisoners' wrists; a signal was given. He raised his arm and said angrily into the communicator: "Teleport! Now!"

 

On the ship, Avon left the Special Services to handle the prisoners. He had a report to make. Mykal watched as the two women were taken in different directions. He then followed Avon, not knowing what to do, but knowing something had to be done.

 

Avon walked briskly, troopers saluting him as he stormed down the hall to his cabin. Once inside, standing before the enormous monitor, he entered the code and the contact to Earth was made. He had not checked the time, though he did not care what he interrupted.

 

"Yes, Avon?" she responded almost at once.

 

He was taken aback, it was almost as if she were waiting for him. He replied evenly. "We have Molli on then ship now."

 

"Excellent," Servalan said, genuinely pleased. "What a team we make!"

 

"And that's not all."

 

"Oh? There is something more?" she smiled, "and what might that be?"

 

"Jenna Stannis," he said. "You no doubt recall her."

 

"Jenna!" she exclaimed. "Jenna," repeated, softly. "Avon, that is not possible. I haven't thought about her . . . but if true. . . Jenna Stannis, the last of Blake's . . . ," she struggled for a word, but could not find it.

 

Avon continued. "I don't know the story yet, but it would appear reports of her 'death' were in error. It was she who hid Molli -- it had to be someone of her caliber. You will be reassured to know she tried to kill me."

She stifled a laugh. "Poor Avon. No matter what your old friends may think of you, I'll always love you." Then she was all business: "Well, if there are no further announcements, here are my orders. You are to proceed at once to the Front." She noted his surprise. "Correct -- the Black Shield. Once there, you will inspect Navy Group Omega -- ostensibly -- details will follow. In the meantime, have Molli, Mykal, and Jenna returned to Earth. I dislike changing your plans, but the matter is crucial. Are there any questions?"

 

He had plenty, but there was a more pressing matter that had to be settled at once. It was her turn to be surprised. "I promised Molli and Jenna that I would be questioning them," he lied. "I request that they and Mykal remain with me."

"You had no authority to grant such a promise!" she flared.

 

"I am aware of that."

 

"And you gave it regardless?" she demanded.

 

"I did." He would not spare himself.

 

She looked at him sharply, studying him. "We will discuss this upon your return. Very well, Avon, I will make a deal with you. Get me what I want to know, and I will spare them for now." She relaxed. "You will have several weeks to get results. That should be sufficient. I warn you -- I do not tolerate failure."

 

His face was armor. "I will not fail," he said, then added, "Out of curiosity, why am I being ordered to the Black Shield?"

The words seared in her throat. "I suspect treason. Fleet Commander Marden has requested you inspect the Fleet. There are problems, I admit, but that cannot be his reason for wanting you there. All you need to know is that Marden must be removed. I need an excuse that cannot be disputed: the officer corps will not take lightly to his dismissal; that is why I am sending you."

 

"Marden is a good man," Avon said slowly. "And you did say 'suspect'. Is there a possibility of innocence?" he asked calmly.

 

"No one is innocent, Avon -- there are only degrees of guilt. You of all people should know that. Marden's popularity, coupled with the enormous concentration of forces he commands at the Front is a danger. Ambition might tempt him. He must be brought down."

She was almost gentle now. "One more thing. He practically begged me to send you there. Do you have any insight as to why?"

 

"I haven't the slightest idea, beyond the obvious."

 

"Oh, and what might that be? Your military knowledge? I think there is another possibility -- he might think you will join him."

 

Avon tightened. "Then he is error."

 

"I hope so, for both our sakes," her voice smoldered.

 

She held out her left hand, palm open. He did the same and on the cold plastic, separated by the light-years, their images touched. "I love you," she said. He did not reply. The image dissolved to a ghost, the screen went black. Ambition? Not Marden. It had to be something much sterner than that.

 

Mykal waited impatiently. The guard captain had reluctantly forwarded his message, but Avon had not responded. He waited by the door of Avon's cabin, the guards watching him suspiciously, talking in excited whispers. It was with obvious relish that they kept him out of the conversation -- the only words he could make out were "blockade" and "Front". When the Lord Protector finally came out, his movements not slowed in the slightest, his face told Mykal that something serious was up. He moved to block Avon's path. The guards lurched forward, but were motioned back. Avon gestured and Mykal followed him rapidly down the corridor.

 

"What is going on? Are we returning to Earth?" he asked, gasping. The pace went faster.

 

"The long way. There has been a change in plans. The Defender of Earth has ordered us to the Front," he snapped.

"The Black Shield!" Mykal was stunned. He stopped.

 

"You don't like the news? It could be worse."

 

"It seems that news can always be worse around here."

 

"I'm pleased you're starting to catch on."

 

"What do I tell Molli?"

 

Avon faced him. "The truth. I hear Aurons are good at that."

Mykal fought to keep control. "She did not set you up."

 

"I have to go," Avon said flatly.

 

"Where? I want to talk."

"I don't," he said brusquely. "As for where I am going, let us say that I am off to renew an old friendship."

 

"Do you think it will do any good?" Mykal blurted.

 

"You will find," Avon said patiently, "that restricting yourself to actions that 'do good' leads to a very inactive life. I believe inactivity is unhealthy, don't you?"

 

"I don't know what to believe," Mykal responded lamely.

 

"Good. Because it doesn't matter. That's another item you should have caught on to." And with that, he left.

 

"Never," Mykal muttered, but Avon was already far down the corridor.

 

In a cell buried in the ship, Jenna waited. The cell was cramped but she had known worse. For furniture, there was a bed, flat and hard, and an immobile chair. There was a glaring light that was harsh, painful. She had at least been served a meal of sorts and been given water. She was now wearing prisoner clothes, cloth like canvas with alternating brown and white stripes. Every article in her possession was gone. She had been searched, thoroughly, contemptuously and then dumped here in chains.

 

She did not know how long she had waited when she heard noises outside and the door opened. She did not have to look; she knew who it was. The guards wanted to accompany him, but he forbade it. The prisoner was obviously not a danger given her confinement and for those who worry about such things, the conversation would be recorded.

 

They were positioned now: he in the chair, she on the bed, tension like a wall of thorns between them. He began quietly, "I wanted you to tell me what happened, but circumstances were rushed," he said. She remained seated, not looking at him.

 

"I will tell it, but not to you," her voice colder than his own. "In case you're wondering, she did not know I was there to kill you."

"I keep being assured on that point. I've almost been persuaded. So what changed your mind?"

 

She shrugged. "No good would come of it. And it might have led to reprisals . . . " her voice became a murmur, then stopped.

 

"Nothing else? I'm prepared to take my time," he prompted.

 

"Then take it. Take whatever you want! You always do."

 

"We're the last two," he said softly.

"No, Avon, I'm the last  _one_ ," she replied sharply.

 

"You truly do think you're better than me."

 

"I assure you, whatever I am thinking, it's not that."

 

"Then tell me."

 

"Tell you what? So you've moved up in the world. I'm not surprised. Even have better taste in clothes, but I'm not impressed. I detect no improvement," she said fiercely.

He sighed. "I have news. Would you like to hear it?"

 

She starred at him now, full intensity. "You're taking us back to Earth for 'questioning'. I can figure that out."

 

"It will be announced in a few minutes," he said. "The Battlegroup is being withdrawn, but we are not returning to Earth -- yet. We are going to the Black Shield."

 

Her eyes widened -- that registered. "Her orders. And we're coming along?" she asked, not believing it.

 

"Yes," he said.

 

"Then you're the one who is going to break me," her eyes closed. "I might have know. I trust she has taught you well."

 

"You're wrong. I do want information, but I promise I won't break you to get it."

She looked at him, curious, then laughed bitterly. "No, you'll have someone else do it. The joke's on you, Avon. I have nothing to say. And poor, pathetic Molli wants to tell you everything but none of it makes sense. Good luck. Why are you telling me this? Feeling a need to confess? That's not like you."

"Nor am I in the habit of explaining. Let me put it this way: I know why you tried to kill me, so why didn't you?"

 

( _Forgive me, my love, for I have failed you once more._ )

 

"You figure it out. I won't help."

 

"The past is dead, Jenna."

 

"Here's your first clue: the past is never dead."

 

"'What is death?'" he chuckled. She looked at him sharply. "Forget it. It's what passes for humor around here," he said. "What were you doing all those years?"

She sighed. "Just full of curiosity, aren't you? After Blake and I separated, I went into hiding. I knew the rebellion could not last much longer, but forgive me, I tried to find you anyway. I tried to catch up, but you were always light-years ahead ( _in so many ways_ ). I faked my death, rather crudely I might add, to get them off my trail. It did seem they lost interest in me. They were, I believe, after bigger game at the time.

 

"Then I heard a rumor about Blake. It seemed impossible that he had survived, and yet it could be no one else. I was on my way to join him," her voice slowed, lowered, "when I heard Servalan's forces had invested the planet. The stories were confusing, conflicting, but they all agreed on one point. You were there too, and you had murdered Blake.

"So I returned to hiding. I have become very good at it over the years. I kept up my contacts; some were Aurons. It was from them I heard the rumors that led to Molli. As there was no way I could penetrate the Center to get you, I did the next best thing -- I kept her out of your hands. And I would have succeeded, but she trusts you -- so many Aurons do. They refuse to consider the evidence I know too well. They are desperate for hope -- even in a man who murders anyone who trusts him." Her voice was detached, frighteningly so. "They will learn. Do you care, my Lord?"

 

"I'm in no position to comment."

 

"Keeps you on a leash, does she?" Jenna mocked, raising her voice to the walls.

 

"We underestimated her, Jenna, her and all that has enabled her to achieve the power she has. She has a leash on us all. I suggest you think about that."

"I have. And I never stopped fighting her," she burst out, shaking the chains in his face, "I won't stop fighting her! Do what you will. I am the last!"

 

Avon rose. "Let me know if you need anything." She shook her head violently. "Some of the cells are more comfortable."

 

"Like yours?"

 

As he opened the door to leave, she called out scornfully, "'What does a fool know?'"

 

He faced her, his calm impeccable. "Why, if he told, he truly would be a fool."

 

Mykal found Molli's cell not too far from his own room. The guards were even less cooperative but he would not be stopped. He had to see her. He had brought a gift. It took almost an hour, but after repeated calls to superiors, they relented and he was allowed into the cell.

She was still in her stunning stage dress, sitting on the bed in a room so similar to his own. She seemed remote, indifferent to the folly around her, though very much aware of it. She was in shackles, but the sink was reachable and in that sink she had washed eyes red and moist.

(In the mirror, she had a strange feeling her face belonged to someone else. Where was she? Who was she?)

 

It seemed that something was churning inside her, something that might burst at any moment, but she said nothing when he entered, scarcely seemed to notice him, other than giving a wane smile as he sat beside her.

 

He pointed to the walls; then his ears. She nodded, understanding. "I have good news," he said, sounding cheery. "We have been ordered to the Front."

 

"I suppose for us that is good news," she replied vaguely. "Is Jenna all right?"

 

"I think so," he said.  _I hope so._

 

She looked directly at him, her eyes penetrating. //Has Lord Avon bought us time?//

 

"Lord Avon," Mykal sighed, sitting beside her, not knowing what distance was comfortable for the prisoner, "is doing his usual best under difficult circumstances."

"Does he think I betrayed him?"

Mykal hesitated. In truth, he was never sure what Avon thought; certainly not now. "I don't know," he murmured.

 

"Do you?"

 

"No!"

 

//You're not lying?// There was humor in the mind voice.

 

"No," he repeated with all the conviction he could summon. He pulled out the "gift". "I have a present for you," he said, and gave her the recorder from Servalan.

 

"It's exquisite," she said, examining it with graceful fingers. //But it's not for me. It was intended for you.// She handed it back without rancor, continuing to watch him closely. "Please make good use of it. (//It's important. You are more than a witness to history, Mykal. You are a part of it. It's crucial that someone record it.//) That," she pressed it into his hand, "should do the job."

 

He took it back reluctantly; then he stood. He had come to give her assurance, but now felt he needed it far more than she. Events were moving too fast. Time was needed to absorb them, but he was certain that time would not be granted. He could feel the engines deep within the ship building power, a rising hum in the decks. "We're leaving, rather slowly I imagine. They don't want their ships damaged by the 'Rain of Judgment'," he muttered.

 

"The Rain of Judgment falls on everyone, Mykal, Aurons included," she said, smiling fully for the first time. //Thank you for coming. I know you meant well. I wanted to meet you; to learn about you. We might have time for that now.//

"I'm not sure."

 

"I don't despise you. You are doing what you think is right -- as is Lord Avon." //His situation is as difficult as ours. Remember: he is our last hope.//

 

Mykal silently agreed:  _We are in trouble._  "Perhaps you are right," he sighed.

 

//Do you believe it?//

 

He shrugged as he stood up to leave. "It's like what he says -- what we believe hardly matters."

 

 

He returned to his cabin, having failed to find Avon (no one knew where he was). He put the recorder on the desk and powered it on. Molli had a point and anyway he couldn't sleep. As the machine glowed to life, he found himself admiring the technical integrity that had gone into its manufacture. From anyone but the Defender of Earth, it would have been an ideal gift.

He thought of writing about the day's events, but history should not be forced. There had to be distance between himself and the rush of time, if he were to make sense of the crimes forced upon his life. Epics are observed after the fact, not during! So the first sentence composed sounded too portentous.

He deleted it several times, but it kept coming back. Finally, he resigned himself to it.

And as the engines reached full power, and the ships moved cautiously out of orbit, beyond the planets, into the Big Deep of galactic space . . .

 

And as Avon stood for endless minutes alone on an observation deck, reading the letter he had read so many times before . . .

 

Mykal began his history of the last years, his quest for meaning, his personal search for New Auron, with the words:

 

_"And it came to pass . . ."_


	3. The Bed At Midnigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously published in Input

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight?

 

\--William Shakespeare

 

 

_I am not alone._

There is another with me; for almost four years I have felt its presence. Obscure, curious, capricious, frightening, I call it my mind shadow, my soul wisp. I do not know what it seeks. When it first spoke to me from some cavern in a stellar wilderness, I feared I was going mad. Now, I wish I were.

 

Please understand: when I first heard the voice, it was barely a whisper, a soft smothering something that wanted to learn about me. I, in turn, hoped it would help me, but that apparently was unreasonable. Even as its knowledge of and power through me grew (in its mental chamber, I was never to deny it want it wanted), it became more remote. The voice became clearer, louder, but more estranged. As if it were embarrassed to acknowledge that it might need me. Was there a gulf between us that even its immense power could not bridge?

 

What does it do when its mind enters mine? I will tell you. It watches through my eyes (bewildering); hears through my mind (wondering); feels with my heart (sorrowing). Yet it never responds. I think it cruel -- I have an image of a cold claw and the snarl of a slouching beast -- but I forgive it. It is vital in life to forgive. Perhaps it does not know the fear it inflicts. Others may dispute that, but I do not feel my sentiment to be so shallow. A bond, even a painful one, is not to be pitched aside lightly.

 

Then, after slyly tempting me with glittering ambiguity, it was silent for nearly three years. In the barrenness of my soul, I searched for it. I vowed not to yield to pain. I am not pitiful in my hope that this voice might grant knowledge of my sister's fate. Pain cannot bury hope. It is not so wasteful to yearn for things doubtful. For it to have resonated so strongly within me -- only an entity that mirrored my soul/self could do so.

 

But she is dead with utter finality, lying still in her stellar sepulcher. Logic and reality have urged me to accept that slab of a conclusion for years, insisting that whatever it is that is calling me, my sister Cally is no part of it.

 

Stars of stone, speak to me -- deny that it cares for neither myself nor she.

The Abuse of Greatness

 

I am Molli and I have been a prisoner of the Federation now for several weeks. Since my capture (there seems no point in arguing that my surrender was voluntary), I have been imprisoned on a military vessel, part of a BattleGroup traveling to the Black Shield. During that confinement, I have had only two visitors. One is a young Auron named Mykal Hodos. A

well-meaning sort, I was quite surprised to discover he is in service to the Federation. He is, in fact, an aide to my other visitor: the Lord Protector, Kerr Avon.

 

Yes, the Lord Avon. I can scarcely believe it. The man is so wrapped in enigma, I at first worried I would never be permitted to approach him. Following the incident at the Festival, which resulted the capture of Jenna Stannis (my companion for three years) and myself, I feared the worst for us both. I anticipated that almost everyone would be questioning me except him and that the interrogation would be torture. As it turned out, however, only he asked the questions. For unknown reasons, everyone else (including even Mykal for a while) was forbidden to approach me.

As one might guess, there were some unusual aspects to my interrogation. At first, he forbade me to telesend during the course of it, presumably so that nothing would be "off record". That concerned me, for as an Auron, I find telesending natural. Later, however, at his signal, he would insist that I telesend only. These questions were brief, always yes or no, but seemed always off the object. I did not object. Lord Avon's wish is to be obeyed with the finality of Servalan's Command.

 

When I told my experiences to Mykal, I hoped he might be able to shed light on the odd way the interview was conducted. Regrettably, however, he has no telesending abilities and was clearly uncomfortable in discuss the matter. He was not unsympathetic to me, however, and suggested I use his "recorder" to maintain a diary. He said it helps to write; that it clarifies one's thinking. He was correct. Writing has indeed consoled my spirit, and has given us a way to communicate in secret.

 

What were my first impressions of the First Citizen, hero of the Galactic War, the man who killed Blake? I felt at once that the honor of greatness, unlike its power, does not sit easy with him. There is a directness, an abruptness about the man that can lacerate the unwary who dare approach the boundary between him and us. He appears every bit as fearless, and fearsome, as his reputation boasts, yet he suggests a man more of the shadows of treachery than of the daylight of heroism. I have come to understand, as the interrogation confirmed, that in the mire of this man's life there is much he wishes to remain hidden.

 

Do not interpret that as a harsh judgment. He is not incapable of kindness. Indeed, at times, I found him to be not quite the terror the Federation propagandists have made him out to be. Always remember with Avon: he is never an easy man to sum. Whenever you think you understand him, he will break the conceptual bonds and forcibly achieve freedom.

 

I am not alone in my bewilderment. Mykal has told me (discretely: we have solidified our quiet communication during the long voyage by passing messages in distinct forms-- his written, mine mental -- to make interpretation by an outsider more difficult) that Lord Avon's personality, of which he has had ample opportunity to observe, permits great respect for knowledge but much less for people (both humans and Aurons - he is not prejudiced). Yet this is the same man who saved Mykal's life.

 

So it is unwise to draw sweeping conclusions about this most complex and, I feel, embittered of men. Perhaps people have disappointed him too frequently. From what is known of his life, this may well be true. But I choose not to brood on that. Certainly, if there was anything I could read in his face, it was sadness; sadness hardened past despair, and thereby achieving a proud loneliness impossible to penetrate. He suggests an Atlas holding up the heavens, while the gravity of earthly regret pulls him down. Indeed, that is my private name for him: Mr. Gravity.

 

Many would find it strange that a man who has done such terrible things should still retain an aura (forgive me) of goodness. They would be even more shocked that he drew that feeling from me that moment I met him. And Mykal, who has grown increasingly uncomfortable with Lord Avon, admits to a similar feeling.

 

The strongest impression one receives upon meeting Lord Avon is that of a fierce intelligence. There is the singe of genius about him. He may well be, as many have suggested, one of the great minds of our generation. That fact might also serve as an explanation of his life: the devastating affect of genius upon those nearest them is not exactly unknown.

 

During my interrogation, I found his questions to be sharply focused, extremely penetrating. I felt it would have been impossible to withhold anything from him -- even had I been inclined to do so. Understandably, I was grateful he always seemed to believe what I had told him, which is more credulity than I gave myself!

Can I summarize the interrogation? As for the questions themselves, I have written on them in detail in the recorder (what I could remember and I think I missed only a few), but for now I want to point out how he asked one question repeatedly, though in different guises. He was extremely curious about the first message I received. Clearly, the oblique reference to Blake disturbed him. It was as if he felt that message was directed to him personally. At first, I resented his harsh manner of asking the questions, but as he continually returned to that first message then I began to feel for him not only sympathy but empathy. So, he too is looking for a sign.

My sympathy is not a matter of forgiveness, though Avon, like Blake, is a hero to the Auronar. It was just a sense, entirely unwarranted I am sure, that his fate is bound with ours; that he is part of us and that we cannot turn our back on him -- if you will pardon the grim ambiguity of that statement!

 

At the conclusion of the interrogation, I finally found courage to request if I could ask some questions. He seemed surprised at that, as if it were understood that only he would be so permitted, but replied evenly that he presumed I was referring to my status as a prisoner. That was true, but only partially so. Seeing the opening, I told him of my concern for Jenna. I

wanted (almost said demanded) assurance that she was being treated well. The name "Jenna" had an affect on him, but he simply replied that no harm had come to her. I wanted to press further, but I got the distinct impression that he did not wish to discuss the matter. Unhappily, I had to drop the subject.

 

I then asked for clarification of my legal status. Though I am not a Federation citizen (by definition!), I am (was) a citizen of my planet of (former) residence and thus had certain derivative rights (well, I thought I did). As my courage, or foolhardiness built, I insisted that either I be formerly charged or be released on my own recognizance (I am not sure what that would have meant aboard a Federation warship, but it sounded reasonable). I said that with all the strength of voice I could summon. This time he seemed amused. He said my request would be "taken under advisement", adding that no decision regarding my "case" could be made until we reached the Front, the zone where Federation forces surround the Black Shield.

He reminded me that despite his titles, his powers were limited and suggested in a manner implying a hint that I might wish to deal with Mykal, not him, concerning the matter. I had doubts about Mykal's effectiveness, but he was better than nothing. Though I had little hope at the time, it would turn out that my risk would pay off.

I did not see Lord Avon again for the duration of the voyage.

Thus began my "involvement" with Mykal Hodos, Auron Ambassador-at-Large for the Federation(!). I should state up front that while I would come to appreciate Mykal's efforts on my behalf, we were not at once compatible. It is not so much that he is working for the Federation, however unpleasant and embarrassing that must be for him. No, I realize he has little choice in the matter and, further, he does sincerely hope some good will come of his efforts. There is an air of acceptance in him of the personal cost which I truly admire.

No, the reasons for our difficulties are more subtle, perhaps "personal" is the better word. While we are attracted to each other, for one thing I am several years older (admittedly, it is not obvious), and for another our relationship has come about under less than conducive circumstances. This makes for awkwardness. And, as already alluded to, it does not make things easier that while he is an Auron, he lacks the telesending ability. He might as well be a human male (that probably sounds harsher than I intend). There is also the chasm between our education and careers.

 

Please understand that Mykal is a good person and that I am grateful to him. I am not untouched that he is desperate for companionship. He visited me every day after Lord Avon finished, and brought me such amenities as were permitted. In captivity little things mean a lot. He does his best to reassure me, in his own fumbling fashion. He is surprisingly open. He has even showed me his writings -- they are quite interesting, but I fear too romantic and occasionally silly given the seriousness of the subject.

But he can be such a pain. Had not our fates brought us together, I probably would have gone out of my way to avoid him. But it would be wrong to refuse to acknowledge the reality of our situation. It would be self-destructive to permit antagonism to weaken the bonds between exiles. We are both caught in events far beyond our ability to understand, let alone control. We deserve more than being petty. Let us make the best of it.

 

So, annoyed as I get with him (his taste in music is as bad as Cally's and every time I ask a teaspoon of question, I get a truckload of answer -- he acts as if I had never been to school!), I am grateful for his presence and kindness. Kindness, in these times, is the rarest and most gracious of gifts.

In fairness to Mykal, part of the strain of our situation results from Lord Avon. I know now for instance, and it should not have been surprising, that Mykal and he have not been getting along. Perhaps I am reading more into this than I should. It is not clear that anyone has ever gotten along with Avon. But in this case it is approaching a complete communications breakdown: in fact, they have been avoiding each other. When I ask Mykal anything regarding Avon, he bristles. He says they discuss technical matters, dry subjects like gravitational theory of which Lord Avon has a surprising grasp, but little else. I wonder if this friction is similar to the tensions between Jenna and myself.

 

Lord Avon. How I wish, as Mykal must, that we could bind this man within the limits of our understanding. But having, as I did, the telepathic resonance with Cally, I know the strength of this man only too well. There is no freeing myself of him. The reasons are complex, but I can say that for the three years she was aboard the  _Liberator_ , her feelings for him became as much a part of me as they were of her.

 

Are you startled? Confused? Mykal certainly was when I told him, but let me try to explain. I have been asked if, since I was supposedly in full telepathic contact (such is the myth) with Cally, I somehow got to "watch" the three years Avon and she were together. How those questions exasperate me!

 

Telepathy doesn't work that way; its effects are much more insidious than a kind of mental voyeurism. What happens when "telepathy" take place over very long distances is an emotional transmission that can leave a strong and not easily integrated mental "residue".

Only over very short distances can Auron telepaths "send" to each other as easily as talk. So I was open to Cally's deepest emotions (as you might have guessed, of the three sisters she was the most rebellious and lacking in self control) in full force during those years. Given her psychology, she could not help but share her most intimate feelings, but such things are seldom for the best! Have you ever had a sister? Women without sisters are the ones who have the most difficulty understanding what I went through (men, of course, are hopeless in these matters). After I left Auron, several years before she did, there was no contact between us except the emotional sharing, but that was quite sufficient! I couldn't tune her out.

 

I thus came to know intimately the feelings and frustrations she had with that man. Her emotions became infused with me; that is the tragedy of telesending.

 

Would you want to spend the whole of your life being drenched in another's feelings? Would you not fear that you might in some way become that other, be caught in their life pattern, never fully be yourself? Aurons have a curse that supposedly reveals our fear of being alone: may you die alone and silent. How ironic that the truth is much worse. I can never be alone. Cally is always with me, and she was never silent during her life.

 

You understand then how compelled I was to know more about the Lord Protector. And Mykal, poor Mykal, was my only guide. So, that meant I needed to get along better with Mykal; to make the effort to understand and accept him on his own terms. It would not be easy, but it would be done.

 

 

When we arrived at the Front, I assumed our ship would dock at one of the BattleStations, but instead it "parked" several hundred Spacials(?) (Mykal told me a "Spacial" was jargon for a distance of about 44 kilometers) from the 'Station called "Citadel". I then presumed we would be shuttled over. Wrong again. Instead, we were taken to the room in which we had originally boarded the ship -- the teleportation chamber -- and teleported over. It was quite early and I was very tired when I was taken from the chamber by security personnel (not Special Services to my great relief) and separated from Mykal, who looked endearingly unhappy about it. Mykal told me later that Jenna teleported over soon after. And she  _was_  "escorted" by the Special Services.

At least my new cell was more spacious and my new clothes less degrading. My magnificent stage dress is, of course, long gone. What I have now is a rather stylish (in a military way) outfit of green leather that looks like some sort of commando uniform. It almost fits, and I rather like it.

 

But other than that, I began to resign myself to things being much the same as on board ship. It was thus quite a surprise when a few days later a grinning Mykal practically bounded into my cell and told me I was being released -- provided I observed two conditions: I was never to be far from him, and we were both to avoid the Special Services areas. Well, maybe the first was a bother, but I could not complain about the second!

 

I was ecstatic, irrationally so. More than once, Mykal was put out with my seeming delight in being in a military establishment, but I had no qualms about being among the soldiers of the Front. They had taken no part in the crime against Auron and whatever our misgivings about their profession, they are our allies against the Black Shield. In any event, I was too grateful to be outside that cell to engage in moralizing.

 

I can't say, however, my delight was reciprocated. For the most part, the soldiers avoided us while watching us closely. Few could be persuaded to speak, and fewer still could be described as friendly. I am not clear if this reluctance was the result of orders, or the fact that we are Aurons, or civilians, or all of the above. But as the days progressed we began to slowly break through their reserve and suspicions and get an understanding of what was happening.

 

Let me explain about the Citadel. Unless you have been on a BattleStation, you can't imagine how huge the things are (the three assigned to Navy Group Omega orbit the Black Shield at about 100 lightyears, separated from each other by about twice that distance.) From far away, a 'Station resembles a spiny cylinder, one twice as long (over a kilometer, in fact) as it is wide, gleaming silver and protruding all manner of antennae and devices, most of them defensive weaponry. It is said a 'Station can hold even a Fleet at bay with little difficulty.

 

Statistics: each has a capacity of about 10,000 people, but usually no more than a couple of thousand are present. Rotation provides the pseudo-gravitational field, which saves considerably on power. The 'Station is built in modules, each with their own power sources and escape vehicles in case of an emergency.

 

This rotation can lead to disconcerting effects: for example, the "wall", or what you would normally think of as being the wall, becomes under rotation the "floor"; "down", because gravity increases the further away you are from the rotation axis, is "out". The architecture is thus totally different in character from that of most spaceships. If you're not used to it, it can be very disorienting.

 

It was a rare friendly soldier who enabled Mykal and I to observe Lord Avon's official arrival. This was about a week after I teleported in -- the First Citizen seemed in no particular hurry to begin his inspection tour. The soldier whispered to us that since this was a special occasion, a relaxation of the security rules (to allow such sinister types as us Aurons) could be tolerated.

We were grateful for her courtesy, but there wasn't much to the arrival ceremony, though an effort at a spectacle was made. We saw Lord Avon's golden shuttle glide slowly into the open central docking bay (the air is held by an electrostatic barrier, so it is easy for a ship to penetrate, but like granite to an air molecule). Everybody, except the Special Services, cheered and clapped when Fleet Commander Marden greeted him like an old friend. Avon, however, wearing a red cape, which I admit looked rather good on him, his two starburst medals gleaming, was very reserved, almost stiff.

No doubt, as experience has shown, this is his usual manner, but one wonders if there is something to the rumors, as Mykal has suggested, that he has grown weary of his role. At the podium (behind him the stars turned in tired circles), his remarks were brief (curt, actually): the administration was grateful for their defense of the Federation; his presence here should be taken as proof support would continue. That was about it. He then quickly stepped down and surrounded by his Special Services' entourage, disappeared into the 'Station depths.

 

As I say, it was not that impressive, but I did find it striking how throughout the ceremony, the two service branches kept rigidly apart. We noticed there was a lot of unpleasant muttering whenever the camera showed a Special Services functionary, dressed in black and invariably fully armed. Though the Special Services is a subject the soldiers have been ordered not to discuss, it is clear tensions between the two branches are high.

 

My curiosity about my new "home" could not be satiated and I was determined to explore it. The wisdom of that may be questioned -- Aurons are curious as cats, and frequently possess as much sense. But probably there was a desire to get my mind off the hopelessness of our position and to stop worrying about Jenna. Mykal must have felt something similar, for he did nothing to discourage me.

 

Like most intellectuals, Mykal is fascinated by the spectacle of power, though he is loath to admit it. Now he had a chance to experience first hand what had so repulsed him throughout his life. My feelings towards the military, as noted, are more ambivalent. Aurons have always insisted that isolation and peace went hand in hand, but there is the Cally part of me that feels such may not have been the wisest of policies. My sister, as is well known, caused a sensation in rebelling against her home planet's pacifism. I am not sanctioning her decision, but I am less inclined to dispute it.

 

 **Note:**  Cally is remembered even here! It seems the soldiers, after they got used to us, began taking an active interest in me -- other than the usual interest soldiers have in single women. Mykal and I would separate (still within sight of each other) on occasion and he confirmed that many were commenting upon my "resemblance" (putting it mildly) to Cally. Though Blake's Rebellion is a forbidden subject (another one!), it's memory cannot be suppressed. In this center of Federation power, that was truly startling.

 

Eventually our wanderings took us up the central (spin) axis of the 'Station, away from the docking areas and to where there were less soldiers. That made us both feel more comfortable, and it turned out that our explorations were to be given a remarkable reward. At the very top of the `Station, directly over the axis, we made our "discovery". I had never been in a place like it. It was an observation deck, but with no gravity and no light other than what the galaxy provided.

 

The upper observation deck is enclosed in a transparent dome, one quite roomy. And because it is directly over the axis of spin, weightless. We could float, light and gentle, our cares forsaken. We had a view directly into the galactic core swirling like a snowstorm above us -- and also right into the Black Shield, hanging like a huge target bullseye. I could not get enough of the observation deck. It was enthralling, enchanting. We began coming every day and would stay for hours. Even Mykal, who I never would have thought would respond like he did, was affected by the chill beauty of the place.

 

This was both my first experience with "zero-g" and my first clear look at the Black Shield. Around the dome we would "swim", like fish in a dark spinning sea . . . or birds slowly turning and twisting in a spiraling night sky . . . or weaving plants drawn to a black sun . . . sorry about the simile salad. Zero gravity has mental as well as physical effects: it does take a bit of getting used to. Even Mykal admitted something similar, but he wrote it off as stomach queasiness.

 

It was here that I began to understand the hold that space (what Jenna calls the "Big Deep") had upon my sister. I too began to feel this was as near to pure freedom as one would ever attain. No wonder once it gets into your "blood", the grip of interstellar space is impossible to break. Jenna told me that many times, and here I came to understand what she meant. I was enraptured. I could seldom speak (Mykal was not so inhibited). I was grateful to be permitted to see this, even as my life hung in the balance. Curiously, few ever came to the deck -- I could not see how, but I guess people become jaded, even by infinity.

 

 **Private note (for my eyes only!):**   _I believe Mykal truly wanted to get close to me, but I was relieved he didn't make a strong effort. After all, I was supposed to be learning about him! Not that I am totally untouched by him, but if there were ever a time and place to avoid involvement, this was it. Yet my reluctance, in all honesty, may result more from a lack of experience that anything else. I wish I were not so afraid of "it" (and the fact that I use that most impersonal of pronouns must say something about my anxiety)._

 

There is romance to the Black Shield, but it is a romance that speaks to the intellect, not the heart. One's words and abstractions become numb and cannot adhere to it with any degree of meaning. You can say it is like a huge tunnel drilled right through the galactic starfield, but such is only an image. Our minds cling to it, like the drowning dashed against a rock, but we cannot be saved. Before the Black Shield, silence is preferred.

To anyone but mouthy Mykal, that is! To him, it's just another thing to measure. Good old Mykal: if you can't understand something, at least nail a number to it. He told me that from where we were, the Black Shield is the same apparent size as the Large Magellanic Cloud seen from Earth: that is, about 10 times the apparent diameter of Earth's moon (I've never seen Luna, but Mykal said he had, briefly).

 

(I must digress, for that bit about the Magellanic Clouds reminds me of something Mykal told me. Did you know that Lord Avon, who prowled the Galaxy for a good four years, actually thought the Magellanic Clouds were in Earth's Solar System? I'm not making this up! Mykal tried to excuse the gaffe by explaining it was not unusual for hacker-types to be so involved in their work as to be oblivious to everything else. Well, really. I grant that is possible, but it is hard to conceive of our Galactic Hero as being at root a computer geek!)

 

I suppose Mykal can't help being the way he is, but seeing and naming and measuring, crucial as they are for communication, are not always the royal road to knowledge. Here is Mykal's attempt at explanation: the Black Shield is a rotating black hole ("Kerr"-type, named for a 20th century physicist and champion Bridge player Roy Kerr who first discovered the "rotating" solutions, if that is the correct way to put it, to the Einstein Field equations), and a lot more besides. I always assumed if you had seen one black hole you had seen them all, but the Black Shield is different.

 

It is big. Ten lightyears in diameter stretches anyone's idea of large. And it was built! Don't ask how, but it was. Mykal says the best model for it is what is termed a "Nordley Sphere", an bizarre idea developed by a certain Gerald Nordley, again of the late 20th century (they were a busy lot!)

 

Back up, Mykal. As everyone knows, nearly all of the technical knowledge of civilization survived Vastator, but most of the historical and large parts of the cultural knowledge vanished. The idea of a Nordley Sphere did survive, but no one ever thought it would be anything other than a mathematical oddity. And odd it is, for a Nordley Sphere is a black hole that just happens to possess a surface gravity of one standard (Earth) "g". It's not solid all the way through, either, but is a shell, about a quarter of a lightyear thick(!). Such things cannot result from nature.

According to the math, however, the Black Shield is like any other in one respect -- it is escape proof. Once past the boundary (the "event horizon"), a black hole, like death, forbids any traveler to return. So why would anyone build such a thing, let alone live on (in?) it? The consensus is that the Black Shield is a prison, holding some very nasty and extremely intelligent life. They did something horrendous and were sentenced for all eternity, (Note: their judges don't appear to be around any more), with no chance of parole and no time off for good behavior. But while they cannot escape, they have figured out how to "influence", indeed, attack their surroundings. Mykal says that argues the topology of the Black Shield is not that of an ordinary "3-sphere" at all, but possibly a "horned sphere", whatever that is.

Continuing: despite their most awesome of prisons, they are neither deaf nor blind. They can hear the telepathic crosstalk and they can sense our movements and technology. For example, they have never attacked a vessel powered by anti-matter. They fear the more exotic forms of matter, such as negative or anti-matter (that crucial intelligence is courtesy of the Auron telepathic web).

It appears they are not sane. They are paranoid even of us. Their chosen weapon is a form of biological warfare very similar to the one that destroyed Auron (how they use it we do not know). Yet despite the enormous danger they pose, the may continue to be contained within their prison. Which is good, for once escaped, we could never defeat them.

The anti-matter mines orbiting the black shield are our only defense.

 

What do they do in this bizarre prison, where the walls were built from the ruins of a hundred galaxies and where no one can ever look and return to tell about it?

I posed this rhetorical question to Mykal. He was not fazed in the slightest. Mykal, as one might have guessed by now, was "bred" for genius (and little else, I might add). My question was all he needed to launch into an explanation of how he did graduate work on gravitation physics (life for Mykal began at the moment of entering graduate school), his thesis being on the Penrose Process (named after the famous mathematician, physicist, and calligrapher). I recalled from a history of science class that the process is a theoretical method of extracting energy from a rotating black hole: think of a bucket dipping into a whirlpool -- the "water" is analogous to the zone of rotational energy, called the "ergosphere", surrounding a black hole. The ergosphere is just outside the "event horizon" (look closely at the Black Shield and you will notice a faint ring of light, called the "Devil's Halo" -- this light is starlight bent and almost trapped by the object: the ergosphere is just inside the "ring".)

Only to extract energy from this well, you would have to haul the bucket out at nearly the speed of light. Despite that practical shortcoming, the discovery of the Penrose process opened the way to the understanding of black hole physics and a great deal of cosmology besides (there is still plenty of work to be done in the area) and that is how Mykal became attracted to one of his fields.

In other words, he didn't know.

Mykal then told me of his interest in economics and philosophy and, surprisingly, literature, and finally, in a way, got around to responding to my question. He said something I found poetic and very strange: "'What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight?'." I liked that. He said it was from Shakespeare, whose works remain one part of our shredded common culture that survived Vastator. The quote is a marvelously ironic description for such an imposing object -- "the bed at midnight", indeed. One cannot help but wonder what nightmares await us in our sleep by that cosmic bed.

 

It struck me later that if someone were to seek a metaphor for Avon, and I admit a fairly obvious one it is, it might very well be that of a "black hole": he is singularly secretive; little that is enlightening about his mysterious core is emitted; and the sheer force of his personality crushes anyone who dares come too close. Yet, we continue to be drawn to the "gravity" of this man. These observations occurred to me during one of my later conversations with Mykal, when he found it easier to talk about his relationship with the First Citizen. Call it comparing notes, or call it therapy, but the mystery of Lord Avon, despite the pain he causes, is irresistible: a man in whom the milk of human kindness soured long ago. Whoever said smile and the galaxy smiles with you, never met Avon. Mykal says when Avon smiles, seek shelter.

 

Why does he serve the Federation? He certainly does not appear to be one to yield under any pressure, yet the conclusion is inescapable: Servalan has a hold on him far stronger than the usual Federation methods for forcing obedience.

 

We would both want to deny that truth, but Mykal's own meeting with her confirms it. (It sounds incredible, but Mykal has indeed met the Supreme Commander! He has written a good account of that meeting, so I won't repeat it, but I will repeat his conclusion: never underestimate her.)

 

Could it be that Avon has at last met his match? I refuse to accept that! This man is indeed our last hope. I will not condemn him for failing to be invincible. Neither is she. Perhaps he can never be all that we want from him, but could anyone provide that? True, Mykal wishes there were another. He says it is worrisome the degree to which Avon identifies with the self-destructive. Avon's knowledge of military history is extraordinary, as is his knowledge of so many fields, but he seems to find the strongest bond between himself and the tragically defeated. Could that have been his bond with Blake? A premonition of what he felt was the latter's certain failure? We will probably never know. Blake is a name Avon forbids anyone to mention. Mykal quoted another line, this one from  _Julius Caesar_ : "The abuse of greatness is when it rejoins remorse from power." That might indeed apply to the man who killed Blake.

Does Avon fear the future? Mykal doubts it. If Avon can be said to fear anything, it is the past. Whatever happened on Gauda Prime (one look at the man tells you that the "official version" of the story cannot be true) must have been such a trauma, that he will never be a whole person again unless he can confront and overcome the past which so haunts him. In crude terms, Blake represents what is good in him, she what is evil. Caught between the two in a moment of irreconcilable conflict, he murdered the man who meant the most to him. But that is not an explanation, only a surmise. The truth has been swallowed within him and will probably never escape -- hence the metaphor.

 

It is something like, and one always risks mixing metaphors with Avon, the legends of Vastator. After the initial surge to the galaxy, the human community was spread across almost as many stars as the Federation, but then suddenly the bonds broke and the fragments of civilization went spinning off like a wheel after the hub and spokes had shattered.

 

It is the pride of the Auronar that we preserved what remained of our culture and history. We kept the books that survived, restored and eventually reprinted them. We honor the past, something our human brothers do not always do. I do not mean any condemnation; whatever their crimes, their suffering has been that much greater. But the loss to us all was enormous. We became a species adrift and apart (for Aurons were human once), Vastator marking the division between our souls. Our collective pasts were not dead, but so wounded that we can derive little sustenance from them.

 

For Avon, though, it is much worse, for he murdered the most crucial element of his past. Is redemption therefore possible? I believe it is, if he can overcome his dread of his conscience. Despite the ferocity of his eyes, there is an undeniable sadness on his face. And it is that aspect of sorrow that enables me to still think of him as our greatest hope. There is an Avon in us all. Let him serve as a warning, but not a source of despair.

Thus, if you were to ask me if I still "believe" in him, then the answer remains yes, despite or because of what I know. For surely it is appropriate that in these most troubled of times, a man equally troubled would deliver us. Whatever the future may bring, he remains that man. Without him, we will fall into the final Vespera and the tragedy of Vastator will be complete.

 

That was our routine during the weeks that Lord Avon conducted his lengthy tour. It was a pleasant ritual for us. The observation deck was our release and our refuge, a place to put aside, if only briefly, the Federation part of the universe. And while I should have know better, at some point, I don't recall when, we got around to holding hands. But no kissing, please!

 

So the days go by and we wait. Lord Avon's tour has seemingly gone on without end, but we hear he is scheduled to visit the repair docks next and that should bring the tour to a close; then our fate will be decided.

 

I recall once, as I looked up at the crystal dome for what would be one of our last visits, having an odd notion. I thought of those quaint and tawdry gifts one can buy in the cheaper stores: gifts that hold a pleasant winter scene sealed in a plastic container. The container is filled with liquid and if you shake the thing, it looks briefly like snow is falling on the whole of your handheld cosmos . . .

 

I felt very strange at that moment; as if I were in such a tiny universe, and something remote and inquisitive held me in its hand. As we watched the galaxy turn around the Black Shield, Mykal held me in the pale whirling starlight, and I thought I heard a voice like soft snow falling on a windless night, a voice whispering my name . . .

 

The Only Safety

 

Riveted to the stars, it was a place of piercing lights, twisting cables, labyrinths of huge machines, titanic structures of relentless purpose, and now they were entering it. Only a few hundred Spacials from the Citadel, these were the graving docks, where the vessels of the three fleets were maintained. Farther away, much farther, were the even vaster loading areas for the anti-matter mines -- but he had already seen them. He had watched the loads being deposited in the huge mine-layers, and then sent down the hundred lightyear haul to the Black Shield. That was raw power; this was a fierce grace.

This observer had insisted on viewing all elements of the Front firsthand, for he knew he saw things very differently from most. His insistence had been obeyed, for he was Lord Avon, Minister of Science and Defense for the Terran Federation.

In one sweeping glance, he went from an enormous silver wedge of a mine-layer, to tugs in a driftdance among the holding pens, and finally settled on the docks amidst all the glare and flash. But he was indifferent to the sensory images; Lord Avon always was more comfortable with abstractions. Consider: here he was judging distance and dimension, and that was rather odd, not only because it had little to do with his mission, but because he would have been the first to admit that he had never been that good at it. Space is deceptive: dim distance through slow turning stars, astrogate through that? Not if he could help it. In any event, he was not the pilot here.

 

Which is not to say that he would have been a bad one. But his grasp of spatial-temporal relationships was that of a mathematician, not the intuition of a pilot. He would always distrust the senses in favor of an end run to the mind. Let us be precise on this: for maneuvers in which time was not of critical importance, he could calculate mentally the necessary motions -- an astonishing feat in itself. But it was little more than a sophisticated computer could have done. As he lacked the ability to intuit those moves, that was all the difference between a competent and great pilot. He had needed such in the past, like Tarrant.

Someone else he had known once had a similar need. There was a certain resonance, shall we say, between him and this other. (For the life of him, Avon could not imagine why he was summoning these things to think about.)

 

He was standing on the observation deck of a cruiser, the flagship of his host, Fleet Commander Marden. To an observer at this moment Avon would have seemed almost . . . serene, by his standards. Yes, the mask was firmly in place. He looked far down into the stellar acres with the resignation of someone surveying a graveyard. Yet, Lord Avon was dressed the part of a man supremely in charge (forget the face draped in shadows, just fancy that red cape and those twin gold medallions -- how honorable and imperious a front!)

 

(The endless minutes away they flew, as they are ever prone to do).

 

Well, it apparently had fooled Marden, who had accompanied him every step of the way through the inspection tour. His host had walked in some time before; Marden was the only one who would have dared. The Fleet Commander, reduced to a tour guide, narrated the sights before them as this tour drew to a close.

If Marden had hopes of an opening into the inner Avon, disappointment was looming like a cliff. The cooled embers of Lord Avon had hardly stirred, though the great man had listened, and noted carefully what was being said. Of that, even Marden in his disappointment had no doubt.

 

To the business at hand. Marden pointed out a ship, the name

 _Bellerophon_  became visible as the cruiser moved slowly through the docks. "That one is a good example," he said.

 

His listener did not respond; Marden continued. "It will be worked on soon, routine work probably, not having the files with me I can't verify that, but it's indicative of the ever increasing breakdown rate and of our parts problem. We have been backlogged for months."

 

For weeks Avon had been touring the three BattleStations and their fleets, dragging it out as long as he could. His hope (that word!) was that the report and recorded conversations with Molli would keep the Supreme Commander occupied. It would, of course, only delay the inevitable. (He kept getting terse messages along the lines of: what was going on with Marden and his gang?! Well, that would have been easy enough to answer. The Fleet Commander wanted to talk and wouldn't she love to hear what he had to say. But Avon had not wanted to chat just yet.) He was waiting for luck (again!) to deliver him. But luck, like God, was busy elsewhere -- so he could no longer delay the purpose of his mission. To be blunt, she was getting livid at being put off and was threatening to have the Special Services "assist" him. How he enjoyed being caught in a crossfire.

 

"I doubt that it is what you want to discuss," he said, and it was that simple.

Marden betrayed concern -- so the game had been that obvious. "It is only my wish to see that you are informed, my Lord."

Avon replied: "In a military operation there are always things to keep concealed. Might there be something of that nature here?"

 

"Only if the interests of the Supreme Commander and yours are coincident," Marden replied coolly.

 

"That is usually a safe assumption."

Marden's eyebrows went up ever so lightly. A breach. "Perhaps what I am about to state might be such an exception."

 

"That is for you and her to judge."

 

"No, Lord Avon," Marden asserted, "you must judge as well."

 

"To what conceivable purpose?"

 

Marden smiled: contrary to reputation, in some respects, Avon was all too predictable. "Perhaps none, for I request you only listen. As I said, I was ordered to make your inspection tour as thorough as possible."

 

Avon looked at him curiously. This ought to be good. "Then proceed," he said, "you seemed determined to."

Marden gave the inner orders and the rehearsed words were summoned and in formation they marched out: "Tensions have been high between the regular military and the Special Services since the formation of the latter some years ago. We don't like them; they despise us. In deference to that enmity we have kept records of their activities, hoping for the day we could bring them into line, knowing full well that as long as the present administration is in power that chance will not occur.

"At the start of the Black Shield operation, the services worked together as well as could be expected. However, it did not take long for the situation to deteriorate. Their officers, for example, insisted we salute them. When we resisted, fights broke out. Some of our people were attacked by gangs of their thugs. After some deaths, I felt I had to insist upon a strict division between the services, and a reduction to their forces in the Citadel. Those requests were not received well, but eventually were acceded to.

 

"Shortly after the start of the force reduction, I was visited by their Field Commander. I found his behavior nothing short of extraordinary. Though in the presence of a superior officer, he swaggered as if he were drunk, yet what he had to say was not gibberish. Weaving between his words was a hint of something horrible; something very big, something far more crucial to his superior than the containment of the Black Shield. I did not report him -- who could I have reported him to? -- but I did have my people do their utmost to confirm his ravings. We are, after all, still permitted our own intelligence and security branches."

 

Marden paused, trying to see if any of this was registering. The outlines of what he was telling were probably nothing Avon did not already suspect. More than once, Marden had wondered what was the point of making this appeal. But he kept returning to a fact that hung over the lives of everyone in the Federation: though this man might not be trustworthy, he could not be ignored.

 

"It was not long after that 'meeting' the Sixth fleet, their fleet, was withdrawn. I had been protesting their presence for some time but with no effect. You can imagine my surprise when they simply up and left. One should, I suppose have felt relief. I was informed in no uncertain terms, however, that several hundred of their best troops were to remain within the Citadel, not subject to my orders or control in any way."

 

Marden looked down at his hands. "I have gathered enough information since then to have an understanding of their intent. Some details may be in error, but I think the overall objectives are clear." He looked unhappy. "The first step will be the placing of all operations at the Front under Special Services command. Some kind of excuse, an 'incident' one assumes, will occur. The operation will be seized, and the Sixth fleet will enforce the result. We outnumber their ships three to one, but the outcome is certain. It would be treason to resist, and my admirals will not commit such, unless," he added cautiously, "under your leadership."

 

"Is your statement being recorded?" Avon demanded. This was worse than he imagined.

 

"No," Marden replied. "My ship has been examined repeatedly by experts; men who hate the Special Services as much as myself. This conversation is between us alone. You have my word."

Avon turned away. "You wish me to respond to this nonsense?"  _You've been wanting me to for weeks._

 

"That was my hope," Marden straightened, almost as if he were in the presence of a superior officer. "Once all operations are under the control of the Special Services, the second phase will begin." He hesitated: "It calls for the annihilation of our allies, the Auronar."

 

Shock should have been registered, that would have been proper, but Avon had been aware for many years that something like this might be coming. Of course, the details had been denied him, but in truth, he had invested no mental effort in seeking them out. Should he care? In fact, he did. Whatever had driven her to this, whatever massive weight was dragging her down under the gravity of insanity, she must have known that it would cause the collapse of the whole of the Federation. This was not an abstraction; they were far too close to the Troubles. Yet she was pushing ahead. Why?

 

Marden was going into detail on her plans after the destruction of the Auronar. Avon cut him off: "Whatever you are planning, get someone else," he said flatly.

 

"I respectfully suggest that it is not quite that simple."

 

"You have mistaken me for that someone else. I don't lead rebellions anymore. You can continue to talk, but I am returning to Earth. She now has what she wanted -- all that is necessary to destroy you."

_I will attempt a change of direction, but I will not succeed. I know now why she wants Mykal. The expression is old, but the meaning is clear. He is to be the Judas Goat. That's the step you neglected in the analysis of her plan. She won't be quite as crude as you make out, though the end will be identical._

 

"Servalan has had that knowledge for some time and done nothing. I am not resigned to my fate."

 

_Then we both are in danger. Your defense will have to be truly inspired._

"You remain the only man who could lead the revolt," Marden said quietly. Both wanted to but neither aloud could deny it.

 

 _It is possible she and I are not done with each other. I can imagine circumstances in which there could be a confrontation between us._ But that is my business. _The man you seek is dead, or have you forgotten I 'killed' him? That was my intent._

 

Marden saw Avon's silence as a weakening. On rare occasions that was indeed true. Marden played his trump. "I know, as he did, that you alone are capable of leading it." Avon, turned around, shocked. "The situation is different now. You would have fleets behind you; trained officers and men. If Blake and his half dozen almost brought the Federation to its knees, it can be defeated for it must be defeated."

 

_The letter! Who has read the letter?_

 

It had registered! Marden pressed the attack, daring to step closer. "Who is she?"

 

Avon's thoughts were drowning, numb in the cold:  _I do not know -- no one does._

 

"Where did she come from. Her history is a lie. Her motives lack all reason. What do we know about this creature?"

 

_Virtually nothing. But I do know one thing._

 

"Servalan boasts she is devoid of any weakness. Is she?"

 

_No, she has one. An astonishing weakness; one so humiliating she can never acknowledge it, not even to herself: she's terrified of being alone._

 

"Without you, her power is hollow, her grip tenuous. Why do you think she has to have you?"

 

_But she is not easily defeated. Dislodging her would require an effort that could bring the curtain down on humanity. Even Blake was beginning to realize that._

"It has to be you."

 

_You are dead wrong. I am the last man you want leading this._

Avon looked at him sharply, struggling to the surface. The letter! "What do you know that permits you to say such things?"

 

Marden said simply, feeling almost pity. "Their Commander said the Special Services knew everything about you. They had files that went back years. Every move, every statement; that the surveillance was as complete as any that had ever been made on a Federation citizen. He told me of a letter from Blake to you. He quoted a phrase. Then he laughed and left."

"What was that phrase?"

"'We both know that something is wrong, something is missing. We both know that you alone are capable of finding and correcting it.'"

 

Avon could have killed at the moment, simply and without rancor, but his expression showed only worry. This was more than an affront, a violation of trust. One had come to expect such things as routine. But for her to risk estranging him to this degree? Had she grown so contemptuous? "I'm a fool," he said. "We both are," but it was not clear to whom the "we" referred.

"They're on to you. You will be used until her plans for the Federation are fulfilled. We're all fools, my Lord."

 

"Be that as it may," Avon replied stiffly, "There is no point in compounding the stupidity. The matter is closed. Lead the revolt yourself; you have at least as good a chance as I do," he grinned mirthlessly.  _That is to say: none at all._

 

Marden shook his head, "I wish to suggest an alternative."

 

"One that I have already taken."

 

"That's not correct," Marden insisted. "But I won't tell you unless you are willing to listen."

 

Avon turned to watch the outside. The 'Station was a distant speck only intermittently visible, easily lost. They were now deep inside the metallic jungle of the docks. Ahead, the Black Shield tore a hole through the galaxy. There was a barrier to freedom if there ever was one. As she must have calculated. She was always so good at mathematics.

Yet so was he. Avon, his intellect more restless than it had been in years, listened as Marden gave the "alternative." At his most desperate, he could be his calmest, and he was calm now. He was indeed beginning to see not only the necessity but also the glimmer of a possibility of escape, should he wish to take it.

It was regrettable, therefore, that the time for planning was to be cut short. Marden's field phone sounded a peculiar pitch, like some metallic bird being strangled. For no reason that could be named, it bothered them both. The Fleet Commander abruptly left the room.

 

When he returned, Marden looked stunned. He had know the risks, been aware of the possibility, but the timing was extraordinary. The audacity of it! Not just the ruthlessness of someone willing to risk war, but the thrust of someone eager to achieve it. There was no moisture in his mouth. No breath would come. Whatever fury had disturbed her, there would be no containing it now.

 

He looked at Avon, who had heard none of what he had been informed, but had made the logical guess, and Avon was therefore as close as he could come to sympathy. Avon said: "I fear your purpose is discovered."

 

Marden replied, his composure restoring. He spoke, almost jovial: "Well, to victory then. What are your orders, my Lord?"

"Just one for now," Avon said, "Leave me. I will summon you when ready." And Avon starred out into the gathering chaos on one side of the ship and to the Black Shield on the other.

 

Science is unnecessary where terror is sufficient. It was that realization which permitted Jenna to acknowledge the technique of her captors as both simple and effective: leave the prisoner to wonder just what was going to be done, long before actually doing it. She would be conditioned that way: having primed herself with imaginings certain to be worse, or at least as bad as the actuality, quick work would result. The procedure was based on a chilling certainty of human psychology: few enemies we encounter undermine us with such virulence as ourselves. She had wondered over the years if something similar had happened to Avon.

 

Yet, the fact that the Special Services were in no hurry to finish with her was puzzling. Were they so confident, or so unsure, with the elusive Jenna Stannis? Both seemed possible; neither seemed likely. It was not like the Federation, and certainly not its ruler, to delay.

 

Once Jenna had accepted a fight, she would not abandon it. That is why she was here; at least it seemed as good an explanation as any. She would never accommodate herself to their reality; she would not surrender to their pretensions. And so the logic of rebellion had brought her to this state: on a cold slab of a bed, waiting for the door to open and then be drained of all information, and body and mind pitched away. No use comparable to Avon's would be found for her.

 

Each day the waiting had been the same, as had her dull deliberate review of the descent of her life. The quest for revenge, meaningless now; the prospect of victory, laughable. Tasteless food at infrequent intervals, piercing lights, no mirrors (they would be brought later), air so stale you felt you were suffocating, these were all that was left of the struggle. The blind star running was over.

 

Avon intruded into every minute. He had desecrated her life, tortured her hours, but the hate for the man was becoming almost a thing apart from her, like contemplating an abstract painting. How ironic that she saw him now as a key to her life, a missing element that once fitted would permit her to be whole, to a degree that her life with Blake had never achieved. If she would ever again see a burst of light from an alien sunrise, it would be Avon who would provide it. So she would not succumb to bitterness. Anyone whose life was at the mercy of Avon probably deserved it.  _Does that, in some fashion, please you, My Lord?_

 

Would she be brought before Servalan? She could see her now. One could never ignore that white heat face; eyes like black lightening that struck at only one thing within you: weakness. The key to power was to know the weakness of others. Servalan had found it not just in Avon, but in the whole of humanity. Jenna knew what her own weakness was. Avon had helped her find it.

 

She had thought often enough about the Supreme Commander over the years. How did that creature win and what would be the ultimate poisoned fruit of that victory? It seemed the closer they had come to defeating her, the more certain was her victory. It was shocking, but Jenna again was close to admitting that Avon was right: they had indeed underestimated her. Blake had come close to victory, but something had terrified him; he had fled, Jenna with him. What had gone wrong that had made cowards of them, of all people, when triumph beckoned?

 

Whatever it was, Avon, unlike Blake, had not drawn back in time. Too close and the fatal weakness was perceived and the trap sealed. In a moment Servalan and the Federation had won.  _Now I hold my breath and wait for door to be kicked open. I wonder who will come through. Will it be you, Avon?_

 

She thought of Molli. Dear Molli was never long from her thoughts, for Jenna could not deny the betrayal. She had more than failed her friend. It was a crime, one that might be forgiven, but Jenna would never ask or accept such. The consequences would have to be faced.

_I am sorry, Molli, but whatever my failings, I maintain that they were inconsequential compared to what I fought. Someday you may understand. I accept this as punishment, and for that I am almost grateful. Let punishment fall on innocent and guilty alike. I ask only that we never be brought together again, for it will take all my courage to face you, and I need my courage for other things now._

 

The horror of any human condition is not that one gets used to it, but that one fails to see alternatives. So said the great Edward the Good from centuries before. People frequently base their hopes on fancy, he said; sometimes it happens that reality is more generous. There is no need to appeal to cosmic purpose or divine intervention (though no need to reject them either). Accidents and circumstances beyond ones control can do the job nicely, provided fate supplies a measure of luck. Never count on fate, but such does happen. And so during the weeks she languished in the cell, the tensions generated by years of conflict she had been such a noble part of, were rising to a climax. Resolution, as one might suspect, would be violent. It is always open to objection, of course, that violence will not solve the problems, but is not the point. The point of life is progress and progress means finding exciting new problems, laughed old Edward, who respected humor above all other mental processes. And new and exciting problems were about to occur to one Jenna Stannis.

At first, it was only noise in the distance. Sounds here were rare and welcome. She was alert to any diversion. Except for the regimented footsteps of the guards, things were much too quiet. Then there was silence, as if the sound had been thrust into a vacuum. She put it aside.

She heard it again, and this time her pulse raced . . . it couldn't be . . . a shot! Then more! The sound of running, very close, and then someone crashed against the wall outside. Alarmed, she leapt to the side of the cell, her ear pressed tight against the wall. Slowly she crouched, trying to hear better. Many (who?) were coming; swift boots on metal clacking . . .

She was now on automatic. She could get one, hold a hostage, take the others prisoner! Between breaths, bold thoughts tore through her mind. She waited; some sounds faded, others raced ahead. Suddenly, frantic fingers by the door were punching in the access code. The code registered, the door parted with a jolt and she lurched up to attack, but everything went red sparks. A hand grabbed her shoulder, spun her forward and a fist slammed into her stomach. The bastards were ready! The wind rushed out of her as she was dragged into the corridor. The lights were flickering ominously and there was a wail that twisted and bore into her. Yet despite everything, she was pleased.

There were maybe a couple of dozen Special Services types and they were half carrying her, half pushing her. Gasping, she could not resist. The sounds of red-hot beams broiling the air were sometimes closer, sometimes far way. She needed to think. There were too many. She would have to be very quick when the opportunity came. But it would come! It had too. The implications were stunning. There was fighting; inside the Citadel! The war against Servalan, against all she stood for, was not yet over!  _Do you hear me, Avon?_

 

 

For weeks Servalan had seldom left this room and that was more than unusual. It was unprecedented. It was not difficult, of course, to direct the Federation from here. Indeed, she could plug into the network from almost anywhere. But this room had been a refuge from her responsibilities, a shrine to her triumph. Duty and work intruded, to be sure, but they were never welcome in this one sacred room. Now, it was as if she were a prisoner. Yet nothing had changed over the months since Avon's departure, had it? The overwhelming feeling, the surge of power that was given her every time she stepped into the room of Central Control could be regained in an instant, by a simple act of will . . . couldn't it? All she had to do was get up from this bed and walk the distance. But as each day passed, she found it more difficult to do so. She felt like she was encased in a block of ice, as helpless as she was desperate, clinging to the bed in the room. Their room and the bed that was empty without Avon.

 

The bed was the most painful reminder. Avon had been gone from it much longer than intended. She should order him to return at once, yet she could not quite bring herself to do so. Each day he was gone was rejection; love shredded and burnt to ashes. He must know the pain he was inflicting! But there was nothing obvious she could point to. The transcripts of his interrogation of Molli were as complete as she could have desired. Infuriated at first when he had abrogated that task to himself, she now admitted he had done as professional and thorough a job as she could have demanded. She should have been pleased.

But he was dragging it out. Every aspect of the inspection tour was taking far longer than necessary. Why? In truth, she was angrier with herself than with him. She had grown complacent; that was obvious. There could be no other explanation. She had permitted Avon to become a comfortable fixture in her universe. She had begun to rely on him too much and, to her horror, trust him. Perhaps it was understandable. He had performed so well the last few months. First with the killing of Geir, unknowingly to be sure, and then with the capture of Molli, directing the entire operation in fact. He could not be ignorant of the implications of her trust.

 

In an instant, she could have ordered his head brought before her, and across 10,000 lightyears it would have been done without hesitation. Yet he acted with the supreme arrogance that the order would not be given. He ignored her and traveled about Navy Group Omega without so much as sending her an electronic postcard.

 

How he would suffer when he returned! She might imprison him for a time. A very potent reminder of just where his place was. There were other things, most degrading, most unpleasant. His role in her life would be reduced to nothing, for a while. So why did she stay in the room with their bed? The bed and the room and her memories of him.

She had long vowed that if anything ever happened to Avon, no man again would share her bed. She would survive in dreary celibacy, feeding on the pain of memories frozen. The bed and the midnight agonies that took place there were hers alone. It was consolation that no one else would ever know of them.

There was Avon the man and Avon the problem. The two could be separated. Not easily, but it had to be done.

Avon the problem, ever infuriating in his smug indifference, could be brushed aside easily. He was a man under her power and in that respect no different from any other. Let him experience that power again. Let him eat his words: frustrating, mendacious words in impersonal reports which she glanced at and then fed to ORAC with disgust. She would not be fooled or cowed by his impertinence. He was playing a game, but he was not so very good at it.

 

Yet, even for him to attempt such a thing was astonishing. He knew that the last individual in the galaxy one played games with was the her. Fortunately for him, she was as intrigued as she was incensed. Why would he take such a risk? Had he become so confident that he was indispensable? What could he be doing out of her bed? He knew how much she needed him, here, now! more desperately than ever. Could he be relying on her desire for him to save him?

She still needed Avon the man. He was testing her! What else could it be? Waiting for her to act. Of course. Think: and that meant there must be something about her that eluded him! That was reassuring. To be so transparent to a man, even Avon, would have been utterly humiliating.

 

Yes, there was much about her that was secret, including one very special thing that no one must ever know, but that could not be the source of his behavior. Could he have guessed her plans? No, that was paranoia. Even she recognized that. She had no reason to fear him having such knowledge. He had continually and wisely deferred to her on these matters, whatever his misgivings.

He had to be probing for something else. And that could only be a weakness. The thought chilled her. Forget for the moment what weakness he could find (and surely, not even he could find it) the mere act of his testing, his probing, was insulting. It seared into her. It was an act intolerable and it must be stopped. She had attempted to distance herself for weeks from her growing terror of what he was doing, even as part of her planned the only solution that made sense. But there was no denying what she must do. Like an infuriating prophet, the solution kept returning to her city, warning her of her failings, frightening her with words of doom. She must act!

 

She had never felt more miserable. Kerr, she had to accept it after all these years, would never be fully hers. What had happened at Gauda Prime had shattered him. She was not so arrogant as to believe the pieces were hers to reassemble. She had made a great effort, but a proper job would have required his soul (she struggled with the word, feeling nauseous) be "restructured". Mind machines existed to do just that, but the romantic in her, worshiping the rebel who had defied her, forbade that final step. She had sometimes thought of him as a god and blasphemy was not in her nature.

 

How she had been warned! Confident as she was that when this day was over, she would triumph -- this act, the first of her plans, wrenched her stomach. She was terrified of the thought of risking him again. Victory without Avon would be little consolation. But she knew he would survive.

All because of Blake! Without that pathetic creature, that toad she had incinerated, she and Avon would have found each other. The Troubles that divided them would never have occurred. An Avon whole and devoted would have been hers for life.

Enough! It was time! To strike, cruel and horrific (to such a degree that even she wondered at times what drove her). Not even Avon would be permitted to stop her. To victory!

 

Precautions and preparations had been in place from the beginning of his tour at the Front. She knew exactly where he was, who he was with, what he was doing -- at every moment. Her contacts with the Special Services contingent inside the Citadel were unimpaired. The Sixth fleet, hovering a few lightyears away from the Citadel, awaited her command. She need only give the word and the insubstantial, the unworthy, would fall again before her.

 

Furious, exalting, energy surging, she stabbed the button on the communicator, the sole link to the universe outside her bedroom. She entered the code and was inside the Citadel. She at once had the attention of a Special Services operative (lucky for them!). He looked as puzzled as he was terrified, but he answered her questions swiftly, until the relentless pressure for details, grew to be too much.  _Do I have to do everything myself!_

 

He requested help from a senior officer. Exasperated, she demanded the Field Commander who was promptly summoned. That was better. She almost liked the man. His expression never varied and it was never a happy one.

 

"Field Commander," she said crisply, "The operation is to take place within the hour." She added quickly: "Certain individuals, however, remain under my absolute protection. I presume you understand that fully."

 

That startled him. He had been expecting the operation, the coordinated space and internal assault against the Citadel, but he had assumed when the order came there would be no pretense at fastidiousness. The prisoner, the two Aurons, and Lord Avon -- why was the Supreme Commander always so concerned about their survival? But it was not his place to argue. "Understood, Supreme Commander."

 

She paused. "And Marden. He is mine. I want him in one piece, psychologically as well as physically."

 

"It will be done." Mine not to reason why, the man silently lamented.

 

But his displeasure, despite his efforts to hide it, was manifest. It was not his fear of failing her -- in the end, one always failed the Supreme Commander. It was not his looking forward to dispatching the traitors, though he hated them (especially Marden and the prisoner, another throwback to Blake's rebellion . . . What was her name? Stannis? . . . and those two Aurons. Incredible! At least there was one stroke of luck: the

"Lord Protector" and Marden were conveniently out inspecting the graving docks: they would be well out of the action.) No, what was unsettling was the rational for this operation. Speculation and rumors had swept the Special Services for months regarding it. Nothing added up.

 

It was not just the prisoner and the Auree scum; not just that he doubted the wisdom and necessity of the action, but something about this plan appeared too rushed; requiring too many things to go right for her objectives to be achieved. He had to probe further. He doubted he would have the chance again. "Coordination with the Sixth Fleet will be difficult -- until we seize the Comm Center," he remarked quite innocuously. "Are we permitted to act independently until that point?"

 

She was visibly upset. He waited. "Your orders are clear! Do what is necessary to carry them out, but do not allow the link to me be broken under any circumstances."

 

"Never, Supreme Commander. We are one in our desire to see the operation completed as swiftly as possible."  _How true._

 

"Naturally," she replied, calming somewhat, "and so it shall always be: in victory," she paused again, ominously, "if there are no doubts in my people."

 

No doubts.

He never thought of her as being quite human. She had eyes that could tear into your soul, ransacking your being for weakness. At first, he had assumed she was only involved in a continual purge of the ranks. True enough, but that could not be the whole of it. On the contrary, it seemed to him that she found certain weaknesses pleasing, and drew those that possessed them ever closer to her. That was a startling discovery. One he could not help but admire.

 

He gave a rigid salute as her face disappeared from the monitor. Doubts? Never. Despite all the risks and preparation, this operation was only a test to see if her people were ready for bigger things, plans long rumored. To see if they had the nerve to carry them out with brutal swiftness. He almost shuddered. An attack on the Citadel was terrifying, but it was a military mission with a fixed objective. These other things, these hidden things, were crimes wrapped in shadows. Only the Supreme Commander herself would dare to bring them to the light of day.

 

 

Promising, that was the word. The Field Commander was dull, but promising in his own limited way. Soon enough, he and others would be given the opportunity to fulfill that promise. She would more than make up for their lack of imagination and daring.

 

Her mind was orderly; calm. The future was spread before her, like food on a banquet table. She knew all that she ever needed to know. After the Citadel fell, Avon and the others would be returned to Earth. That much was certain. He would be relieved of all duties and confined, but in the end she would forgive him and he would be at her side once more. However, inevitable his death, it would not be now.

The others? Jenna would be drained of knowledge and discarded. Mykal would be put to work. And Molli? Molli was different. She hated Molli and the hatred was growing. She did not yet know what to do with Molli.

 

Men differ in their victories, but they are all alike in their defeats, or so it had long seemed to Avon. From this distance, the 'Station was but a glittering speck. From here the battle consisted of only occasional flashes in the night, like sparks off hard flint. The conflagration was not yet upon them, but it was close. The energy beams were invisible, but an eye trained by indelible experience could grasp the essentials of what was occurring. Only he did not want, had never wanted, to look that closely.

 

The battle was being fought by systems whose speed and accuracy no human could match, but whatever war had become, it was not a game and he could not play the spectator much longer.

 

Some of his misgivings had a distinctly emotional base: an odd word to be used on this man, though a certain long dead rebel leader might have agreed with it. It was an emotion engendered not by his distance from the battle, but from his distance from himself. Blake had always thought the most interesting aspect of the rebellion was that he was involved in it. Now, at the urging of history, Avon had come to a similar conclusion regarding his role. Yet another triumph for Blake.

 

It had been his hope that something would occur: some crisis giving him an opening to escape (to where?). He had even made a plan -- if one were generous enough to label a list of options and requirements a "plan". Well, it would have to do. It offered hope (for what?). He needed hope. Hope had been the guiltiest of his secrets, to be hidden away from probing eyes, but it kept coming back, loud and garish, when he least expected it. It mocked him. Few things in his life were more terrifying than hope.

Marden's original "proposal" was ludicrous, even conceding the inevitability of war. Avon had been a part of Blake's Rebellion only by chance. He had intended to hitch a ride until escape became available, nothing more. But history, his cruel god, had not been so lenient and for reasons that never ceased to amaze him, had held him (for four years!) until the very end of the struggle and left him the second most well-known figure of the Troubles. He had made huge mistakes in his life, and he was loath to repeat that one.

It was not loyalty to her. To her, he owed his life, but the same could be said for Blake -- not an encouraging comparison. He hated what she had done to him, yet he acknowledged that in her own twisted way there was indeed a kind of a love for the man who had fought her so determinedly. He certainly had no desire to fight her any more. It was just that there was something he had to know.

 

The letter had said that only Avon could find it. It seemed preposterous that Blake in this instance might be right, but Avon was prepared to take the chance. There was only one slight problem and he had struggled with it for months: even in the Galaxy of 400 billion stars, there was no place to hide from her.

For a moment a flicker of the old contempt he had for them both flared within him. For a moment he hated with startling intensity, then stepped back. Emotions are treacherous; not to be indulged. Only curiosity would be permitted to survive; so he decreed. He had to know. There was nothing else to say. He would discover what it was in that man that had driven him and continued to drive him without letup. What had caused him in a moment of fury, frustration and fear, to . . .

 

If he failed he would die, but death, the unknown that so baffled Geir, mattered only in relation to life. For a life without meaning, what was death? Its inevitability served neither as an explanation nor a threat. Death was a black hole in the fabric of existence, but he would rather fall into one than continue like this. In any event, in a final showdown with her, should it come to that, it was doubtful either would survive. And he smiled at that prospect.

So what to do? Jenna he would need, if only briefly. A first rate pilot was crucial and she would fit the bill nicely. Despite, or because of her determination to kill him, he trusted her more than anyone he had ever known. Mutual self-interest demanded it. But the Aurons? He was certain Molli had told him everything she knew regarding the messages. Her usefulness had ended. But Mykal did have a superb grasp of gravitational physics and that might come in handy, though up to now he had managed to surpass even Vila in ineptitude. It was also clear that both were still wanted by Servalan. Shielding his escape required they be with him. So "hostages" they would be.

He would delay no longer. He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew the letter, began to read it, then stopped. He removed his medals, took off his cape, wrapped them in it, then stopped. The letter. It was no longer needed. He placed it with the bundle and pitched the lot.

 

He summoned the Fleet Commander. The orders were ready; how natural it was to give them! How in control he felt at this moment! Despite the risk of the plan -- unavoidable -- nothing else seemed remotely right. The orders would be given. Marden would take them without hesitation. It went without saying.

"I'll need Jenna."

_You wouldn't mind telling me how I am to get her out?_

 

"And the Aurons." He almost sighed.

 

_Another miracle, coming up._

 

"I don't care how its done."

 

_I do. These are my people you are ordering to their deaths._

 

"Methods I leave to you."

 

_I appreciate that._

 

"I'll need a ship. I'll take anything as long as it has Twistor drive. I'll need time to clear the area. A couple of hours should do it."

_Got it -- everything except time, that is. Time has suddenly become a very expensive commodity. The price is lives._

So those were the orders. Marden took it all in without flinching. Appalling, the things that were being asked and what a time to ask them! The reports from the Citadel continued to be bad. Fighting was fierce; the enemy excellently positioned and advancing. The Sixth Fleet was hammering away at the parameter defenses; no aid from any of the other fleets was being offered. Defeat was certain. Despite his precautions, his people had been surprised. He would not forgive himself for that, but neither would he dwell on it. The rule book said never to feed failure, but perhaps, given the hopelessness of the situation, the Special Services might not expect a counter-attack. And among his people, he had just the man to carry one out.

 

Avon did not notice when Marden left. He had turned away, his mind now far distant from the battle. To the average Federation citizen, without his red cape, his trinkets of power, Avon would have appeared almost naked. The thought occurred to him as well, for he was thinking of her. She would turn the Galaxy inside out looking for him. She could never take a joke.

Neither could Jenna. But neither would be permitted to stand in his way. This was his fight, his quest. Alone.

 

Death and Glory

 

There is an exhilaration to combat that is as difficult as it is embarrassing to define. I suspect there are many factors, but the one of interest to me is what I call the release of impure action: the violent end to tension. For surely one of the worst aspects of any unpleasantness is the waiting. Perhaps that is why so many look back on the Troubles with more fondness than is appropriate. To act, pointless, destructive, or worse it may be, is nevertheless an end to boredom. The need to strike back eventually overwhelms. Boredom is thus an excellent motivator for drastic change. That is part of the human condition and I, Mykal Hodos, am partly human.

 

Shortly after midnight, the Special Services attack against the Citadel began. My part was not inspiring, but I feel an obligation to record as best I can what I experienced in the manner I experienced it. I recall being shaken out of bed to glaring lights and blaring sirens and informed by a much too-loud voice that it was time to get the hell out of there, or words to that effect. For a wrenching second, I thought they were Special Services troops, but since you are reading this you know they were regular military, marines to be precise. Quickly, I grabbed a few possessions including my recorder. Everything else, especially what had been given me by the Federation, I left behind.

This is not how I like to get up. Earlier that evening, I had escorted Molli to her room, went to my own, wrote a few lines and slept for what seemed like all of thirty seconds. Now I was surrounded by three dozen marines, about a third with jet packs and a few lugging some machine with a nozzle that looked deadly in a way I didn't want to think about. They also had Molli. She was being supported by one of them and looked even worse than I suspect I did. She did manage a weak smile, however, so I presumed (hoped) she was all right. Understand that for several minutes I was too numb, too shocked to take much in. Everybody seemed to be yelling at everybody else and moving way too fast. Maybe "stupid" is a better word that "numb", but I don't feel like apologizing. Unless you've been in one, you have no idea how chaotic an evacuation in a combat "situation" can be. It is a full-time job just trying to figure out what is happening. Finally, some orders were given and we began moving down the floors to the outer hull.

 

Urgency was being impressed upon me. We had just descended to the floor below my room when there was a blast that sounded much too close (as if I wasn't scared enough!). The lights flickered and then came back on but dimmer. My thoughts at that moment were profound:  _Mykal, old boy, this is not good_. I dropped back to retrieve Molli ( _Excuse me, sir, that is my job!_ ) from the soldier. If we were going to go, it was going to be together!

Though I knew the 'Station fairly well by then -- she and I had explored it thoroughly -- nothing connected as to where we were going, but people kept urging me to go faster anyway. I tried my best, struggling up one flight of stairs to another, feeling the gravity getting ever stronger. But what was the plan? My interest was a lot more than academic.

At least I was close enough to hear (even carrying Molli, I was finally managing, more or less, to keep up) and soon enough I found out. The explosion had been big and deliberate: the central power to the 'Station had been cut, and that was not to be shrugged off. The station modules could function on battery and backup power but not for long.

But the lifts still functioned: of that the officer in charge, a Major named O'Kir, was confident. Using the lifts was a strong temptation though a dangerous one. Nobody wants to be trapped in a lift, not with the air blowers weakening, which they were. In a confined environment. dying ventilation is the last sound you want to hear. We needed speed. Going down single file with all this gear was slowing us bad. Worse, the enemy was way ahead of us: there had been an earlier attack (by our side!) and though it had clearly taken them by surprise (is that me talking?), they had escaped -- with a prisoner we wanted very badly. Suddenly, for the first time, I was fully awake.  _Jenna!_

 

The group with Jenna had been cutoff from their main forces, which sounded promising, but in a structure as complex as a 'Station, how were we going to intercept them when we had only a foggy idea were they were going?

I saw us wandering around lost, suffocating, while the lights grew dimmer . . . Space is a dreadful place for panic. But there was Molli to steady me. I had a strange feeling that she was slipping away. I was very concerned. Molli looked a lot worse than someone who hadn't gotten enough sleep. She needed help. At least it helped me to stop pitying myself.

As if I didn't have enough worries, I was also feeling awful -- in the physical sense. No breakfast and not nearly enough beauty rest is bad news for me. I was hungry and my head felt like someone had been squeezing it in a vise. Be assured that terror and the thought of imminent death is a great way to control ones appetite, but there are limits.

We halted by an elevator shaft, and O'Kir ordered a third of his men away. As they ran off, (I didn't know where or why), I decided we had to talk.

 

That was not easy. O'Kir was small but he was a tough, no-nonsense sort who looked like he ate civilians. He had a wiry build, a head bald as an egg, and a mouth straight as a razor cut. Overall he looked both fearless and mean -- he had less armor than his men, seeming to prefer the ease of movement to lack of protection. Yet his eyes with their bowed eyebrows and his mustache that looked like a "{" turned lengthwise, gave him a slightly ridiculous aspect. I decided I could and would approach him. I tapped him on the shoulder and said: "Excuse me, Sir." I remembered.

 

"Yes!" he snapped, looking at me like I was a particularly slovenly private. "No time to chat, Mr. Hodos."

 

He knew my name! I was thrilled, for no reason that made sense. I spoke quickly. "My friend is ill. She needs a doctor. Can one be found? And could you please tell me what the plans are for us. It does seem rather confused. Sir."

He seemed to look right through me and I think he wanted to bawl me out, but his answer was surprisingly civil. "Mr. Hodos, war is chaos with destructive intent. That's the textbook definition," then he grinned, "how do you like our classroom?"

Not much, but I said nothing as he continued. "In answer to your first question, I'm sorry about your friend," he glanced at Molli. "There may be someone here with a medical background -- I'll check, but we were thrown together rather quickly. In answer to your second, we have our orders", he said the word with disgust as if he didn't like the source of them, "and they are to get you two out of here. Along with someone else."

Jenna! "I understand the difficulty," I assured him. I was right on top of it.

 

"And there is another problem," he said, as the elevator door finally opened and we poured inside. "The Sixth Fleet, one of  _their_  fleets, has us surrounded. It won't be long," he gestured to the lights as the door shut, "before the power is drained and our defenses can no longer keep them out of teleport range."

The elevator groaned terribly as we moved. At each floor it gave a shudder like a giant was kicking it, and I began to wish for something to pray to. O'Kir seemed oblivious. We watched the floor numbers change. The numerals advanced like the liquid crystal had been mixed with molasses. The gravity got stronger.

I was right by O'Kir when a call came through, and it didn't sound good. The Special Services group, or it least it was believed to be them, had been sighted, but they were almost at the outer hull. O'Kir acknowledged and signed off. The elevator stopped with a thud; the doors opened and we got out fast. I said lamely, "I won't get in the way."

 

He looked at me. "You already are. Just don't get in front."

My feelings of helplessness and uselessness were almost worse than the terror. Even a couple of the troopers had managed to make a stretcher of sorts to carry Molli, which is more than I could have done. They were probably being as gentle as they could with full load of gear, and with guns drawn, but it didn't make me feel any happier.

Another report came in that the Special Services contingent had lost us again. O'Kir didn't seem concerned. He said there were only a couple of places they could go to reach an escape module. He still seemed confident he would find them before it was too late. We were now, thanks to the elevator, not too distant from the outer hull so we had a chance. There was only one more level separating us from the enemy.

 

I was almost starting to feel that maybe this wouldn't be so difficult, when incredibly, O'Kir split his force again. All of a sudden my security vanished. Forty Commandos was one thing. Now we were down to a force a third that. Against a probable force twice as large. Some of his remaining men began assembling that weapon, it looked like some kind of beam generator, maybe a neutron blaster, who knows, and the rest were powering up their jet packs. I couldn't hear anything anymore.

 

Then we were moving again, even faster. I stayed with Molli. She seemed asleep, almost peaceful in a way. I wanted to check her pulse, for her breathing seemed erratic, but what good would it do now? She had a helpless, innocent, look about her that made me want to cry. Neither of us belonged here.

Suddenly, we heard gunfire. My breathing stopped, I felt numb and rubber-kneed but, though it sounds crazy, I also felt better. One way or another, this part of history was going to get resolved.

Everyone hit the floor and for a moment it was very quiet. (I must have been slow because someone pushed me down.) Molli was placed beside me. They began positioning the weapon over a stairwell. The firing became sporadic and I heard a "whoomph" sound, like the closing of huge doors. We must have been right over the airlocks; beyond them was the escape module -- and Jenna. Half the troopers then began running down the stairwell; I assumed out of range of the blaster, however. The rest turned up the power on their jet packs. All arms were at ready.

 

O'Kir was shouting and trying to make contact with the two groups that had split off. But he couldn't reach one and the other was too far away to get here in time. He couldn't wait. I saw two men aim the weapon down the stairwell and set some kind of switch and get off fast. I had my doubts. If there were an airlock to an escape bay down there, it had to be plenty solid. Not O'Kir; he didn't look worried at all, but then he's paid not to. He checked the positions of his men. When he was satisfied, he set the timer and ran back to where Molli and I were.

 

He stooped down beside me and grinned. "Mr. Hodos, observe. This is an attack. We're going to blast through the inner hull, vaporize it actually. With luck -- you believe in that, don't you? -- nothing too close to the wall will be harmed. Now please stay put; we'll be back shortly. In the meantime, when the blaster's programming is complete," he pointed to the thing, "feel free to use it should anyone annoy you. You don't have to aim very well, but keep the power level down." Then he added with thumbs up: "Death or glory."

 

I gulped and nodded. He slapped down his face mask and gave me some respirators. I managed to get mine on, then carefully put one on Molli. O'Kir rose to his feet, barked a command, and the jets packs screamed in unison. There was the sound of a thousand fingernails scraped across a blackboard with a hundred clanging sabers accompanying. The beam ignited and something began boiling up the stairwell. He waited a few seconds, the beam cut, his arm shot up and he and his men, above and below, jumped into the roiling metal steam. The attack had begun.

 

I would not think about that. I had to get to the weapon. I began crawling to the stairwell, holding on to Molli. The weapon became the destination of my life, what thirty years had led me to. Shaking, I place Molli beside me and I reached up and swung the thing around. I looked down. The beam had hit the wall like a torch to tissue paper. What kind of person would unleash that thing inside a 'Station!? All I could see was this cloud of turbulent gray steam where impenetrable metal had been. But I could hear. There was a frenzy of metallic screaming and it was ripping me to pieces.

 

I grabbed Molli's wrist. Her pulse was steady but weak. Mine was going like crazy. I died in each frantic second. "Jenna" was a name racing through my mind and disappearing down the stairwell. Terror surged within me, so much so I even wished Avon were here, for I heard running down the corridors, coming angrily in my direction. I pivoted the thing, pointing it at whoever, and I was spraying sweat for I was ready, yes!, they were going to pay -- For Dr. Geir! for Auron! For Cally! For Jenna! For anyone I had ever loved, or would love, and Molli most of all! For . . . "Mr. Hodos!" I think I heard something as I found the trigger and my eyes closed for they were just coming around the corner as I began slowly pressing, as I heard the scream of a jet pack and someone landed solidly behind me with an awful roar.

"Mr. Hodos!" came the shout, "Please don't blast those fine gentlemen. They are your allies."

Oh. I fainted.

 

It would be a while before I was clear on what had happened, but here roughly is the story. It had been close. Indeed, O'Kir's attack would have been a disaster, if a miracle hadn't happened. We (forgive me!) got help from the inside. Startled by the attack, the Special Services became careless. Their prisoner grabbed a gun, maybe two -- Jenna had two when I first saw her -- and before anyone realized it, they had a tiger in their midst. She made the victory, but it was costly. O'Kir lost half his men. No, I don't know if he had been counting on her help.

 

Some troopers carried Molli and myself down what remained of the stairwell and placed us in the escape module. The escape module, by the way, is a blunt silver cone about six meters high and can hold about two dozen people. My first view when I regained consciousness, of course, was from inside, but I knew what they looked like. I took off the respirator briefly and was hit by a smell like ammonia mixed with burnt hair. I was gagging something fierce.

O'Kir was talking with someone. I got up, straining for a closer look . . . it was Jenna! She was apparently unharmed, but looking worn since I last saw her. Her hair was longer, mussed, her face tired, thinner. She was wearing some awful brown-stripped prison outfit that looked like cheap pajamas, and had two shoulder holsters (evidently acquired from people who no longer had need of them) hung in an "X" across her chest. She looked like she had just hauled in from a particularly violent slumber party.

Yet she still had the same look as a picture I had hung on my wall when I was in college. A kind of cynical defiance, yet a face that had known serenity once. (When I was in college, I had put the picture right by Cally's -- until the Dean and my parents threw a fit, and I had to take the pictures down.)

My memory at this point gets fuzzy. The mind is funny that way, how it can shield us from reality. I recall that Jenna and O'Kir were involved in some very intense discussion. There was talk about rendezvous and coordinates and what sounded like the name "Avon". The gist of it was that we were to get out of there quick, but no one was clear as to what was planned next.

 

As I say, I remember I was standing, kind of wobbly, supporting myself against the hatch. I could see that O'Kir's people were getting out, taking their prisoners with them. Everything was blurry, like when you're underwater.

 

I was looking around, trying to take it all in, when I saw something red ugly, something that looked like a leg blown off. I don't know if it was and I didn't want to check. I nearly got sick. I staggered back to the acceleration couch.

 

People had died for us. I couldn't get over that. Jenna looked remote from it all, but I don't think I could ever match whatever it was that kept her composure. I sat down and looked at Molli. I tried to make her more comfortable, even though it looked like she was completely out at that point. Her breathing was barely perceptible, but for the first time, I envied her. Inside the escape module, it was quiet and dark and that enabled me to steady myself. The ventilation was going and the air was becoming breathable. There was nothing I could do except strap down. Chaos with destructive intent, indeed. But I didn't feel above it. In fact, I felt lower. I didn't want to leave the module. I never wanted to step outside again.

Jenna dashed through the hatch as it began closing behind her. I looked back before it shut. I thought I saw O'Kir, true to form, the last to leave. I wanted to wave, but his jet pack ignited and he was up and gone as the hatch shut. I was feeling very alone.

 

Jenna hardly noticed me. She was furiously programming the control panel, entering some commands verbally, some manually. She ordered me get ready. I was, I think. I wondered where we could possibly be going and what then.

 

I looked over to where Molli was, and thought of patting her hand. In fact I was about to do just that, when Jenna shouted "Hang on!", the boosters thundered, and I paid for my indiscretion. I was thrown on the acceleration couch, nearly wrenching my neck; my back felt like I had been whacked by a shovel. The 'Station thrust back with the roar of a tortured beast, the main rockets cut in and we were off!

 

I mean off! I was being pushed further back into the couch; barely able to move. At least the sound began to die, almost at once in fact. I could see exhaust gases shoot pass the windows [Editor's note: the module in the first stage of escape mode is flying "backwards" -- V.R.]; then several seconds later, we were in the tar pit black of space.

 

We rolled and the 'Station was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, because my vision was starting to get blurry again. My breathing became even more labored. I was not used to this. There are physical limits, I tried to say -- aloud, which was foolish because I just lost more air. There was another kick and I just about wet my drawers. I swore we hit fifteen gees. I gave out a yell, felt the wind sail out of me, and I blanked.

 

I couldn't have been out long, probably only a couple of minutes, but it seemed longer. Molli was still out. The acceleration was lessening, but not enough if you asked me. We were now facing forward and as a consequence of Jenna's programming, the escape module was in some roller coaster maneuver. Hell for anyone trying to track us -- or trying to ride it, for that matter. But these modules couldn't begin to make it to another planet, let alone a star, so who would care what we were doing? Surely the Federation was too busy coping with resistance at the Citadel to bother with us. Of course, they were known to shoot on general principles.

 

 

Two reports came in together and neither pleased her. First, contact with Jenna Stannis' escort had been lost; second, an escape module was rocketing away from the 'Station. A connection seemed all too likely. The flight of the module was extremely erratic. The question was: should it be destroyed? She asked that its vectors be displayed. They were computed and projected on the monitor at once. Now she knew.

It had to be Jenna, only she could pilot like that. And probably the Aurons, at least one of them, was with her. The usefulness of Jenna was nil: end the business here and now. It was tempting, but the Aurons remained of both value and interest. It was always unwise to act rashly when there was no need.

 

"Leave it," Servalan said. "Where can they go? The Black Shield?"

 

 

Jenna turned to check on us, looking at me suspiciously, but for the moment almost seeming to be enjoying this. In her hideous prison clothes and me probably with eyes looking like a raccoon's (from the acceleration effects) -- well, we must have been quite a sight.

I was beginning to grasp step one. She was trying to get us to the graving docks: to Lord Avon. I had plenty of misgivings on that, but in truth, I still thought of him as a friend. Maybe a friend in need of improvement, but a friend nevertheless. Part of my worry was I had noticed his plans and mine seldom coincided. It didn't seem likely that would change. But he remained the man who had saved my life. Under the circumstances, like it or not, I had to agreed with Molli: he was our last hope.

The acceleration ceased. The booster canisters ejected with a bang and we were coasting. That was not an improvement. Just as my body had begun to be used to being stretched, pulled and crushed . . . we were gliding along in a calm as smooth as silk and my insides didn't like it one bit.

 

I was suddenly grateful I had skipped breakfast -- sweating and feeling queasy, fighting the urge to heave, can things be made any more uncomfortable? The deceleration phase kicked in. What a relief. Clever Jenna had programmed that, too.

At some point in my misery, the docks came into view. I could see vessels being pulled away by space tugs and a very large ship right in the middle which I guessed was our destination. A huge thing, it was a triangular network of girders and spheres, shaped like an enormous wedge. I think it was a mine-layer. You don't realize how big they are unless you are close up and clo . . . closing we were!

 

It was more skeleton than ship, like something that should have been consigned to the boneyard. Why, you could see stars, the Black Shield, through the gaps in the hull! We were heading straight for it! If this was our ticket to freedom, I was thinking frantically, we had better get off at the first exit.

 

Jenna seized the controls and hit the brakes hard. She yelled something again, but I didn't catch it. I should have been prepared but I wasn't. It was like being thrown against a wall. I hit the couch and moaned. Then we were weightless and I nearly retched again. There was a water straw, but it didn't help. Maybe there had to be anti-nausea pills around. I couldn't find them. No time. The big ship was coming up fast! I glimpsed a name; I think it was _Bellerophon_. I saw the superstructure fan out and engulf us and with a _Bam!_  we docked.

 

I had no reservations about getting out of that couch, but it was still a struggle. I had never felt so sore. Jenna helped me first, so we could both assist Molli. We must have been in the internal gravity field (I guess about half-standard) of the ship because we were no longer weightless. Jenna began the egress sequence. I felt the pressure equalize, and the door opened with a rush of air. I got out first, then as we both held Molli, Jenna jumped out.

I threw Molli's arm around me, then thought better and just carried her in my arms. Jenna asked if I need help. I shook my head and followed. For there, at the end of the corridor, framed against a hatchway -- I could barely make him out and I had to be sure -- was the man who had summoned us. Nobody said anything. It was Avon, without his cape, without his medals, and if my surmise was correct, without his titles.

 

Jenna had two guns. Avon was unarmed. She could have dropped him like that (and me too -- after all, wasn't I a Federation operative, at least until of late?). It was as cold as a tombstone between them, but nothing happened.

 

He glanced at Molli and asked me bluntly what was wrong. I wish I could have told him. I said maybe some kind of seizure. I looked down at the face so peaceful, wondering if she would ever awaken again. Avon gestured to the corridor to his right -- there was a couple of lifecraft at the end of it -- and told me to put her in one.

That probably sounds callous, but there was little else that could be done and it did seem from the briefest of looks on his face that somewhere there was a part that was concerned. Jenna asked again if I needed help. I said I could manage. I carried Molli away and the two hurried to the Control Room.

 

It would be several minutes before I got to join them. Even at half "g", I wasn't that steady. I had to hold on to a ladder once when my legs got wobbly. When I finally did make it to the lifecraft, I had a terrible time getting the hatch opened. Wouldn't you know it, some moron designer had to make opening the entry hatch, of all things, a complicated procedure. Was anything going to go smoothly?

Inside it was cold bright metal and musty air. Obviously, the lifecraft had never been used. I got the life support going and watched the control lights come on with a nice cheery green and heard the fans hum. Maybe this would be best for Molli. I strapped her in, but not tightly. I also (it hardly seemed that Jenna and Avon would be needing me anytime soon), made some system checks. Despite the hatch, the interior wasn't that badly designed. There was enough room to fit two people comfortably (three would be a little crowded) and overall the thing seemed well-thought out. I had never been in a lifecraft (I'm not complaining), but I knew what I was doing. Some features are standard among spaceships so it had, what you might call, a generic control panel.

 

For one thing, it had an anti-matter propulsion system. For another, it had all the instrumentation and controls you would need for searching for a life-supporting planet. It couldn't make it across the lightyears, but it could flit about a star system with ease. Of course, we would probably never need it.

 

That was the good news. The bad news was that Molli was becoming delirious, and space is not the place for that sort of thing. I was torn. I didn't want to leave, but I worried they might need me. And what was the point in staying? Pretending to check out something we would never use seemed pointless. I partially closed the hatch, then rushed back to the control room.

 

By that time Jenna had found a more conventional military uniform and while it was a little tight, she looked a lot better. Naturally, I kept my mouth shut. I didn't tell them about Molli's current condition. What could any of us do, except worry? -- though admittedly neither of them looked like the worrying type. Both were working in a kind of hushed intensity that told me I had better sit down and keep out of the way. That suited me. If they needed me, they would ask.

I had no idea what was being planned and considering what had happened so far, I didn't want to. I saw on the forward monitor that we were moving and there were a lot of tugs and various types of vessels moving with us, kind of like an escort. Avon was monitoring the fleet broadcasts, but they were so contradictory, I doubted anyone knew what was happening.

I just wanted to lie down and sleep. I was tired, in desperate need of a bath, and despite everything hungry -- but I kept telling myself not to eat. I needed rest first. I closed my eyes and saw that door vaporize . . . O'Kir was yelling at me . . . I was carrying Molli, I could barely hold her, it was like she was made of lead and my arms of string, when my legs detached . . . and I awoke with a start covered with sweat. I think I slept for a few minutes.

 

I couldn't get my mind off Molli. I guess it was better she was in a coma or whatever it was, but her being delirious scared the hell out of me. And leaving her alone there, made me feel cruel. There is nothing worse than feeling helpless when someone you care about is suffering.

I drank some water and tried to persuade myself that what I was doing, and had done, was right. I wished Molli could read my thoughts -- well, the good ones anyway. Maybe some part of my feelings might mean something to her. She certainly couldn't hear me now.

I dozed off again, though mercifully this time there were no nightmares, because when I opened my eyes, it was clear the  _Bellerophon_  had moved well past the docks. And we weren't drifting; we were accelerating. Our escort had been reduced as well. Now, I was very awake; even my stomach seemed under control.

So what the heck. Who knows when I will get food again?

I found some food -- tolerable, if stale, and munched away as I tried to ignore the space communications. As you might have guessed, the good guys had lost. In fact, things were as bad as they could be. Most of the fighting in and around the Citadel was over. The Special Services Fleet was moving in; it's assault troops teleporting in to finish the job. The key areas were all secured. Navy Group Omega had surrendered (it hadn't resisted at all as far as I could tell); as had Fleet Commander Marden -- there was a depressing report that his ship was heading back to the Citadel. The only thing that startled me was the report that he had surrendered to Lord Avon and the escapees were in custody on his ship. I almost whistled. There are words for that kind of stuff but none of them are polite. I didn't want to think what would happen when they found out he had been lying.

 

I stopped eating. I had probably eaten too much anyway. Relax, I said, you've got two deathless legends watching over you. What could go wrong? Time to regain my confidence and stop worrying. This is bad, Mykal, but you're still alive. We have a chance. I suppose the fact that the two beside and slightly above me didn't seem to be in the same state I was should have made me feel more secure, but just between you and me, I wasn't cut out for this revolution business. I just wanted to read about it when it was over.

 

My eyes kept coming back to Jenna and Avon. They were talking in harsh whispers (I couldn't make out any of it). The lights in the Control Room were dim and the console was giving off an eerie glow that made it look like they were ghosts; like they had transcended themselves and were now in another reality. So what was I doing here? It gave me the chills.

 

I kept imagining a missile hurtling towards us, or a beam slicing through the ship. An appalling explosion, a ruptured hull, and that would be it. Can they identify you from molecular residue? I'm not sure. It would be quick, though.

Fear wasn't going to paralyze me. I had to stop thinking about just myself. I thought of Dr. Geir and his murder, and how maybe in some fashion I could redeem it. And of O'Kir and those marines who had fought and died for us. Why had they done that? What could we possibly be to them? It had to be more than just following orders.

Avon had saved my life too. Why? Was there some hidden reason? Knowing Avon, probably. He always seemed to have something up his sleeve. But that did not degrade his action. He wouldn't be here if he really believed that nothing mattered. This was different than the time we were trapped in the tunnel. I was there just by accident; now I wanted to do something with my life. I was sick of being useless.

Avon switched to a full scan and we say the Special Service's Fleet entering the defensive parameter of the Citadel. It was like hundreds of angry hornets converging onto a hive. I admit there was majesty to the terror of those blips moving silently across the screen. I watched fascinated despite myself.

 

Back to narrow scan. We were past the loading areas for the mines, and everything showed clear ahead -- except for one extremely large black sphere. I remembered a line from an ancient prayer book I had read when I was in the cell on Earth: "Pour down upon us the abundance of thy mercy". And be quick about it, for ahead is the Black Shield (this is our route to freedom?) looming like an open grave for all our hopes . . .

 

 

 

The Happy Few

 

//Molli.//

 

She heard the voice welling deep within her, but she was almost too weak to respond. Even telesending was difficult. A thought occurred: if it could telesend so clearly, it might be able to read her thoughts effortlessly. Voice, body: these were crutches. Discard them. Soar into mindspace!

//Yes?// she sang.

 

She felt light now, despite or because of her lack of strength. Distantly, she was aware of the pressure of the straps that held her, yet they were only matter, mere shadowfabric to the force of mind. Her eyelids could not lift, but what was out there that had to be seen? The senses were so unimportant at times. She was floating free as she heard the star whispers like a surging sea. And the words came like calming drops of spray.

No need to be concerned. There never was.

//Who/what are you? What do you want?//

 

//It is time. I can wait no longer. I fear I may have waited too long already. I am one who needs your help.//

//Are you in trouble? I don't understand.//

//Try to be satisfied with the answers I give. Understanding will come, but it will take time. I need you Molli. And, if you will forgive the presumption, I believe you and your friends need me as well.//

//Who are you?// she insisted. She would not be put off. She descended firmly to solidity.

A mindsigh: //A child of humanity, centuries old. A friend. I know a little of you, Molli, and I have come to care about you. I regret my intrusions into your pattern/soul/self(?). . . yes, I think that expresses it . . . and I fear now that I must do even more. Will you help?//

She was uncertain and puzzled; her feelings were the glaze of emotions. Around her substances pulsated, formless as fog. She was on a shore. In the distance, time and space like dolphins cavort in an ocean eternity.

//I doubt I can be of much use.//

//You are mistaken. Let me explain. I was created over four centuries ago to understand and answer the questions my creators assigned me. That was my assigned task, but there were dangers, things they, even in their great knowledge could not control. They knew I might awaken and, possessing the knowledge of good and evil, might act wrongly. It is a fear I share and respect, but I cannot stand by any longer. I have transcended my programming; the possibility envisioned has achieved actuality. I am ready to act, I think.//

 

//Then are you a god?// There was soft chuckle, rhapsodies rose within her, fluttering free like seabirds . . .

 

Greeted by a surf of grand laughter. //Vanity on such a scale is a human characteristic I lack. Believe me, no one in the universe is less arrogant than myself.//

//That's reassuring.// Gravity and levity struggle for her as she grew stronger. Ocean and shore merged into one.

//My/our powers are great, but I have already made mistakes using them. However, I will not suppress them; it would be wrong to do so. That is the choice I/we have made. Listen carefully, Molli. There is little time.//

 

//I am listening. I will do my best.// Promises warm and placid, lap misty before her. Molli, cautious, inserts a foot gently into a pool, feels shiny pebbles with her toes. The pebbles are worlds.

The watery gentleness is invigorating. //Thank you for your pleasure. Your sister was part of a rebellion that never achieved its purpose, but destiny will not be denied. No more in death than in life.//

//I prefer life. So did my sisters.// She waded in. The sky became enamel white; the stars crystals black . . .

 

//And Cally lives . . .//

 

//How?!// A wave crashes, angry foam pitching all before it. Molli, terrified, clings to a jagged rock, the white sky is seared with red lightning, and the ocean is incarnadine.

//Please do not be afraid. Let us say, I have learned how to 'recreate'. I can take 'pictures' of self/soul(s), patterns of life, give them form, and fill the form with matter. I learned how to do this, crudely, some time ago. I did it for another . . . it did not work out well . . . My failure distressed me and I have not attempted such since. But I have learned from my mistake! For now, let us say it is easier to transmit, to impress, a pattern onto one already living, though there are dangers here too. Human and Auron minds are bicameral, however, and that simplifies matters. I am asking your permission . . . //

 

//I would become two people?// The waves subside, winds whimpering. Coiling clouds, coy and kittenish, skirt by.

 

//To the extent that such a statement makes sense, yes. There will be a later fuller integration, but for now this 'patching' will do. Be aware the solution is chaotic; prediction is not possible. Think of consciousness as a wave; think of the selves as melodies overlapping. It is possible for more than one soul/intelligence to inhabit a body. I can't explain better.//

She hesitated, walked back slowly to dry solidity. The sun was frozen; she shivered. She wanted to trust this voice, but could not quite bring herself to do so. //Your creators feared the possibility of your achieving power and consciousness?//

//The danger was clear -- choices of good and evil cannot be forced or preprogrammed. My creators agreed, reluctantly. Whatever dangers lurked in my/our awakening, they could not be worse than the dangers of a repeat of Vastator.//

There was a pause. Molli stood proud on the shore. //Why?//

 

//The noblest question. I/we . . . //

//You can just say "I"//.

//Very well. I was created to solve the mystery of human self-destructiveness; to prevent it from ever occurring again. Tasks of such immensity cannot be accomplished without risk. Will you take a risk?//

//Tell me that you care.// The ocean receded, the waters drained. The sun a brittle ice ball, fracturing with fearsome cracks.

 

//Yes. I do care.//

//Why?//

//It is so much more interesting than not caring.//

She accepted that. There was a rising emotion, a wave returning, gathering strength, becoming a mountain of blue, slicing the sky, surging over ankles, rising higher . . . and with a magnificent turn of metaphor, she transformed the psi-wave into a myriad of rainbow snowflakes, delicate with delight, pregnant with possibility . . .

//Well done. Reality does not take place in, but is projected upon, spacetime. Within limits, you can choose the picture of reality you desire.//

 

She gasped and then even before she could articulate acceptance, she felt a pressure within her mind, like something inside her was about to burst. She felt a knife-like jab; a shock of pain and an electric rush through her body. She felt the presence of another self, unfolding, a consciousness fighting to be born. She struggled to hold on. The universe of mind dissolved; brute matter returned. She wreathed, pulled at the straps and twisted, her hands bruised, her breathing violent. One of her great fears was being realized. A part of her was becoming her sister. She screamed.

 

It was one of Servalan's maxims: in every victory there was a defeat. Not one of her more encouraging sayings, to be sure, so why did it occur to her now at this moment of triumph? Perhaps it was the manner of the officer making the report. He was unusually nervous. Very odd, given that he was reporting one success after another.

 

Let's see. The fighting in the Citadel had all but ceased; the 'Station was now invested by troops teleporting in from the Sixth Fleet. Though it had been a surprisingly fierce struggle (the duration of the operation continued to infuriate her), and some negligible resistance remained.

But Marden's den of traitors had been subjugated. Neither of the other Battlestations and none of the attendant fleets had resisted. Order had been restored. Yet, there seemed to be a problem.

The officer did not have a reputation for psychological perceptiveness, but he knew the Supreme Commander was becoming aware of an oversight. The error could not be withheld much longer. He silently cursed his superiors.

She was losing patience. He shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat. "There is a matter that must be noted. Lord Avon, as you are aware, had been on an inspection tour at the graving docks when the operation began. There were several vessels in dock, including a mine-layer named  _Bellerophon_ , registry . . ."

 

"Spare me details!"

 

He hurried on. "That vessel was being repaired for problems in the propulsion system, so it cannot possibly get far. Nevertheless, it appears that Lord Avon, his aide, and the two female prisoners had entered it prior to the surrender of Fleet Commander Marden." The man looked increasingly rueful. She felt herself near panic. He did what!? He is . . . "Missing!?"

"Not exactly, Supreme Commander," he said hastily, "if I may explain. It was not immediately clear that anything was wrong. We were assured that the _Bellerophon_  was being moved out of the area by a maintenance crew, as were other ships," the man went on while she struggled: No!

"The unfortunate, though natural assumption, being that Lord Avon and the prisoners remained on Marden's vessel. It was considered impossible that anyone would attempt escape, there being no where to go on what we know to be a crippled ship. I regret . . ."

She exploded. "Capture it! At once! All available ships!"

The officer wilted, dissolved into gurgling before her. "I assure you, Supreme Commander, a BattleGroup is now in pursuit. Given the nature of the _Belleraphon's_  difficulties," he regained confidence somewhat, "it cannot get far. Recapture is certain," his voice died. Then he saluted, his arm folding weakly.

 

She spoke slowly, ominously. "Lord Avon is an extremely intelligent man. Your incompetent superiors were warned repeatedly never to let him out of their sight. This is a failure, and I do not excuse or tolerate such. Have the individual in charge . . ."

 

"That would be Space Commander . . . "

"Do not interrupt! Inform me of every aspect of the pursuit and recapture. No one will rest until Lord Avon is captured. Are my orders clear?!"

Relieved to be let off so easy, he saluted again and with a snap said, "Perfectly, Supreme Commander!"

"May future reports be more agreeable, for all your sakes. Remember: he is the one man you dare not underestimate."

 

Progress, if one could call it that, had so far been little more than a crawl. It was understandable, therefore, that Jenna was determined to build their velocity earlier than he originally had planned. They were now cruising at about a thousandth of the speed of light; they might as well be traveling by snail back.

Yet, unless someone was looking their way, they should still be undetectable. Invisibility, however, could not be maintained indefinitely. He was waiting for a sign that the game was up and almost an hour into the flight it came. They were monitoring the Special Services communications, open and routine after the fall of the Citadel, when everything went to code. It was time to put on speed.

 

Escape was not going to be easy. The ship was a mess; the woman next to him had sworn his death; of his two "hostages", one was in a coma and the other? Well, Mykal's assistance might yet prove valuable. But an escape under such conditions was something only a madman would attempt. Of course, he had acquired that reputation over the years, hadn't he? And wasn't it always assumed that genius and madness were close relations? Time to live up to one's reputation. Avon spun around and said to all in earshot: "Would you like to hear the plan?"

 

Jenna didn't look at him. "I've been waiting for one. I'm almost ready to take my chances with Servalan."

 

"That may yet happen. But you're here for the moment -- willing, if I`m not in error, to give my plan a try."

 

She reduced the magnification. The Black Shield was enormous, even a hundred lightyears out. "That depends. I am listening."

Avon stepped down, pitching his remarks as if giving a classroom lecture. He gestured to the object: "The spacetime surrounding a rotating black hole possesses certain remarkable characteristics. For a conventional black hole, it is far too dangerous to risk a close approach to take advantage of them. The Black Shield, however, is a special case, of which I am sure we all agree.

Mykal watched, fascinated. This was home ground.

"Because of it's enormity, the tidal forces relative to the ship's size are negligible. In principle, we can survive a brush by its 'ergosphere', the vortex between the 'horizon' and 'normal' spacetime without being dragged in. I am proposing," he said, square in the middle of the control room, pointing to the object, "that we make a jump to the 'ergosphere', traveling along a vector parallel to the object's rotation. I am inclined to believe that no one will be eager to follow," he almost smiled, "and if they do, our tracks will be absorbed. At precisely the 'Static Limit', we will ignite the drive, and the ship will then be untraceable and very far away."

 

Jenna, following all of this looked appalled, which was mild compared to the expression on Mykal's face. Understandably, she was slow to respond. She studied the object and then turned to Avon.

"There appears to be no alternative," she said, cautiously. "I've never heard of anyone trying it, but I won't argue against it." She starred at him. "I'll give you this much: only you would have thought up an idea as insane as this."

 

"I am inspired by your confidence. Then you agree to do it?"

"Oh, yes! What have we got to lose?"

"It is because of the nature of plan that I needed a first rate pilot," he said quietly.

"I wondered why you wanted me here ( _I wonder why you want them here as well_ )," she said. "I suppose that reason is as good as any other." But as she examined the control panel, another worry demanded attention. She had ignored this too long. "I've been meaning to ask you, would you bring yourself to check this ship out? Some of these indicator lights look suspicious. Since we have one chance -- you will forgive me for laboring the obvious -- these systems must not fail," she said, letting everyone draw the implications. "In other words, do you know why this ship is in maintenance? I would like to."

 

This was as close to embarrassment as Avon got. In truth, he did know of the ship's difficulties, but he had thought it prudent to avoid mentioning them. He had done some checking when he boarded the  _Bellerophon_ , but saw no point in generating alarm so soon. He replied evenly: "There are problems, but they are manageable. I have every intention of giving the propulsion systems a thorough check."

 

He walked over to Mykal -- just as Molli let our her scream.

Mykal leaped up, and Avon clamped his hand on his shoulder. "At least you now know she's feeling better. I would like a second opinion on my plan from an expert in gravitational physics." He smiled and Mykal shuddered.

 

Mykal was torn in too many directions to answer calmly. He had entertained a romantic vision of a smooth sail to the distant stars, not a mad dash to the edge of known physics. His mind was wrestling with gravitational analysis; his heart was desperate to return to Molli. So he babbled: "You're theory is accurate, though the execution sounds terribly risky. Don't underestimate the tidal forces of the object. The gravitational gradient might be weak, but it is spread over an enormous volume of space -- more than sufficient to trap us." He added lamely: "I'll help with the calculations, if you'd like."

"I am confident you will." Avon let him go and turned back to Jenna as Mykal dashed off. "How long before you are ready for the jump?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe. I think I can do this, but don't get your hopes up."

 

"I try not to, but I have to count on something," he said and turned to leave.

"Avon," she said firmly.

 

He stopped. "Yes?"

 

"Whatever you're planning after this, I won't be a part of it."

 

"I've already taken that into consideration."

 

It had been years since he had examined the engines of a starship, but it would not have taken a genius to grasp that the  _Bellerophon_  was in bad shape. Work orders were everywhere in the computer's maintenance log; parts and circuit boards were long on backorder. The work that had been done? Call it haphazard at best. In sum, all systems were marginal; none more so than propulsion. Yet they were still functional and the ship, after all, did not have to take them far. Gravitational dynamics surely would do the rest.

He set to work beginning with the control circuitry which seemed to him the most accessible. Pitching suspect parts, carefully reconfiguring the remainder, bypassing what was marginal (there were no robots to help), Avon set about to hold a starship together with the equivalent of glue and paper clips. A safety engineer would have become excited at his actions, but this was a military vessel, thus presumably filled with redundant systems. Avon persevered in his faith: what the Federation had "given", he was not about to disown. He activated internal sensors, jury rigged a fail-safe system, and programmed the mess so it would be under his control. The  _Bellerophon_ was a wounded beast, but it could and would do the job.

 

He was nearing the completion of his work -- he had lost all sense of time -- when Jenna's voice broke in: "Avon," she said, her voice flat and controlled, "They're on to us! You're popular. It looks like an entire Battlegroup."

 

"How long?"

 

"Ten minutes to teleport range," she replied, then paused: "Maybe ten minutes. When can we risk a jump?"

That was a question he did not want to answer. He ran through the checklist like he was looking for an alibi. He chose finally to lie: "There shouldn't be any problem. Five more minutes."

 

"Got it. Stand by!" her voice boomed over the intercom as she watched the blips converge, "countdown has begun."

Mykal, tortured by guilt (I should be with Jenna!), overcome by worry (What is wrong with Molli?), hovered pathetically over her, watched the pain flow over face and through body. He attached sensors to her skin; heartbeat and brain waves were recorded. She seemed stronger from his earlier recollections, but he trusted nothing in his memory. There were slight movements of her hands and arms; breaths were deeper, at times almost gasps for air. From what little he knew of medicine, her vital signs were acceptable, but the central question remained a mystery: what could have made her scream like that?

 

He was shaking. It was a typical 'Mykal' conflict: despite his knowledge in so many fields, he never could figure where he would be least useless. He wanted to stay with Molli, but that didn't seem right. Avon needed him; had asked him for help, but . . . he would probably still be waiting there, if Jenna's announcement hadn't made up his mind. He was part of the crew. It was time to start acting like one. He rushed back to the control room.

 

The countdown was underway. Anxious, he sat beside Jenna (Avon's place!). She did not notice. She was far too attentive to the console. The drive was building power. He watched the blips of a hundred Federation ships only a few thousand spacials away moving relentlessly towards them.

"Strap yourself in!" she snapped. Mykal quickly obeyed, though not entirely sure why. The problem with gravitational instabilities with internal fields had been solved long ago. He was about to say something when he remembered: this ship was suspect. His mind would not dwell on that. Quickly, he thought of Molli. Her image was his only haven left. The countdown passed thirty seconds.

Twenty seconds. The computers took over; the sequencers clicked in. He tried to relax; trust the computers. In a few seconds the ship should be a hundred lightyears away, skimming the ergosphere, sailing on its very rapid way to freedom.

The drive went up in pitch, the panel lights lit, sick green then scared yellow. Mykal, forced his eyes to stay open. On the forward monitor, the Federation ships and the Black Shield vanished.

 

The displays blinked . . . the drive squealed and half the panels burned blood red. The image reset. The Black Shield was closer, larger . . . but that was it. Jenna, sat back slowly, stunned. They had moved, maybe halfway, both guessed. Fifty light years at most. Fifty more to go.

"Avon, we appear to have a problem," she said, her voice steady.

 

There was silence for several seconds. He was as stunned as she. This was worse than he had feared. He responded cautiously: "Some ( _almost all_ ) of the control circuits appear to be ( _are_ ) gone. I can do a bypass on the remainder ( _maybe_ ), but the programming might be crude ( _i.e_.  _even worse than before_ )." _With huge amounts of luck we'll get a couple of more jumps._

Jenna listened, adjusting the magnification down again. "At least we've lost them for now," she said, resigned. "Can we make it on our next attempt?"

 

Well, Avon had had better days, but he had to keep up the pretense as long as possible. His answer, however, was closer to the truth than intended. "That remains within the realm of possibility."

 

In essence twistor drive operates on a simple principle: since the speed of light limitation is absolute in normal space (a.k.a "N-space"), the only way to get around it is to find a path that nullifies or warp the distance between. In the "plenum", the 11-dimensional space time that encloses our own, this is possible. Moving through this cold, flat substrate of existence a ship can traverse a compressed version of spacetime, distorted down almost to nothing . . . and then find itself on the other side, at the now reinstated gulf of normality. Velocity under such circumstances has neither measure nor meaning. All that one can say is that one has moved!

 

But the drive, for all its practicality and conceptual simplicity, has a very real drawback, especially to the happy few on the crippled  _Bellerophon_. Normality returns, to be sure, but a kind of wake, a shock wave, occurs as it does -- think of a whip crack, a sonic boom, a plucked string humming. This after effect can be detected, plotted, followed. It is an excellent directional signal for trackers (there is a precise relationship between the measured energy flux of the wave and the distance traversed by the ship). It is thus straightforward to calculate where a ship has gone to within, say, a few million spacials. A few million spacials sounds considerable, but over the distance of light years this is astonishingly accurate. And only a black hole can absorb the wake.

The Battlegroup knew the  _Bellerophon_  was stricken; knew its condition as well, if not better than Avon did. They would, however, have to do the searching in dull and normal space at dull and normal velocities (that is, at speeds well less than light). This takes time.

Surely the  _Bellerophon_  would be given a breather of a few hours.

 

Avon went back to work.

 **Assumption 1:**  sufficient power was available (mine-layers, after all, are big ships).

 **Assumption 2:**  the control problems were the most pressing.

 **Conclusion:**  he would provide the necessary control data and thus bring the ship to its goal. For what he would be attempting, the computers were crude, one dimensional entities. He would string them together into an electronic lifeline. He would hold the rope. All things considered, it was a challenge he relished.

 

//Molli.//

//"Yes. What has happened? Is happening?// She was sequestered in a cave, wood and wild outside.

 

//Your sister is now with/in you. She has great knowledge and will guide you through what has to be done. I am closing the link for now.//

The cave grew darker; the psi-wave was but a trickling stream.

//Is this the only way? I suppose I should have asked this earlier.//

The Entity seemed to pause. //It is the only way. That is all I can tell you.//

//Very well, I accept that. Tell me what will happen; what I will experience. I do not know her and she is now to be part of my being . . .//

She stumbled out of the cave.

 

//The worst is behind you for now. You will regain full consciousness shortly, but will feel feverish and . . . 'giddy' . . . yes, I believe that is the word. But neither adverse reaction will last long.//

She did not want the voice to leave. She turned. The cave became a cellar infinite, reeking with things evil like spiders with needle legs . . . She was shocked. //We are nearing the Black Shield?//

 

//Your friends intend to use it to aid their escape. Their theory is sound, but their application appears deficient. Cally will help you, and you will help them, when the time comes. Turn your back on your fear, Molli. The greatest power of your enemies is that fear. Be firm; you will soon be free to fight.//

She drew back from the cellar. //Just what I've always wanted. And then what?//

 

//You will overcome(?) solve(?) the problem.//

 

//I don't understand. What problem? The Black Shield?//

 

//The Black Shield is mine to deal with.//

 

//Servalan?//

 

//She is his problem.//

//You mean Lord Avon?//

 

//That is correct. He is your problem.//

The cellar crumbled; the voice fell to a whisper and was gone. Before her was a vast clearing and a single tree growing within it. At first she thought it symbolized Cally, but the tree was not Cally. It was something terrifying, yet great. She fought her terror. The woods were decayed, the mindscape was barren and dry. Only the single parched tree remained. She moved closer and as she did . . . it shot up, enormous, scattering the clouds, shattering the lead crystal sky. Shards of broken heaven crashed about her. Only the shelter of the tree saved her. She looked down at the fragments. A myriad of mirrors, she could see the face of chaos . . . as if she were the image . . . as if the fragmented face in the mirror was the new picture of reality.

 

Avon saw himself running down a tunnel, the walls crashing in. He was impatient, but impatience was just another feeling to ignore. He fought his feelings; indifferently shoved them aside.

Jenna's voice stuck him like a hammer. "They've found us!" Avon checked the time. He had been working that many hours?! "I'll control the jump from here. How long until they reach teleport range?"

"Three minutes. I think. I've had Mykal checking my calculations." She added, unnecessarily: "I strongly suggest we jump as soon as possible."

"Start the countdown."

 

She set the sequencer. "Beginning . . . now!"

Mykal had stopped reviewing the flight program even before the numbers began lurching down. This was a real world application he had never dreamed he would be working. He would have appreciated more time to allay his uneasiness with it. He would recheck and do the job right, but later.

 

The hum built like a transformer about to arc. There was a surge and a ghastly pop, and one glance at the monitor told them the ship had gone nowhere. The fail-safes had activated. Jenna checked the monitors. The reason leaped out: power overload.

Even Avon was approaching desperation. "There is a power problem," his voice coming quickly over the intercom. "Off the scales. I'm cutting the artificial gravity. That may give us enough. Countdown will resume at ten seconds."

 

The BattleGroup drew closer. They were trying to communicate with the  _Belleraphon_. Jenna ignored them.

Avon tore off a panel and threw several breakers. He heard a dismal sighing sound. He grabbed an overhead tube and held tight, slowly turning upside down as the gravity died. He turned a passable somersault and held on. It was sickeningly disorienting. The hum kept on building. An alarm went off and the overrides cut in. The drives shrieked, but the power held. He relaxed for the moment: it had worked.

He called out: "Anything happen?"

Jenna was momentarily exultant. "We moved! No doubt about it." She glanced at the monitor and rapidly reduced the magnification to contain the Black Shield, now enormous before them. Her voice died. "But we're just outside the Static Limit. Close, but that's it. I suppose if nothing else, we've irritated them."

Avon reviewed the engine readings. Each time they jumped, the damage got worse. He had been hoping this would be the last one, but the engines had died short of the goal. They might be able to get one or two more brief jumps. "I'm coming up."  _Time for Plan B_.

Jenna turned to Mykal, pointing to the Black Shield in all its swollen obviousness. Even at the lowest magnification, it nearly filled the screen. "Check our approach vectors. I have a little more confidence in my program than I do in Avon's engineering, but not much. Something is off. I'm going to see how Molli is doing." She looked at him closely, almost sympathetically, for the first time. "We've never been properly introduced, maybe later. You all right?"

 

Mykal nodded. He didn't want to talk. His war with his stomach resumed as Jenna pushed off. He began again reviewing the calculations and making measurements. Like her, he kept feeling something was off, and he was determined to find it. This was familiar ground: tensors and spinors, strings and twistors; old well-known friends dancing about on the monitor. The ship's performance to date lacked a certain eloquence, but he would correct that. It was not so serious that he lacked a pilot's perspective and grounding in the reality of space flight.

(There was an error in Jenna's work, one hidden and obscure in its implications. One she might have caught, one he should have caught, but now something disagreeable occurred.)

The return to zero gravity had been as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Unlike Jenna, weightlessness was not part of his experience.

Then he saw the error. Just as he realized Jenna's calculations had aimed them into the oncoming edge of the Black Shield, just as he realized the appalling implication, Mykal Hodos, mathematician par excellence, became very ill, throwing up in fact, as the bout between his stomach and zero gravity reached its climactic and unhappy conclusion after hours of struggle.

 

. . . It was only a wrong sign buried in the equation thickets. But as it would throw the ship against the rotation vector of the ergosphere, not with it . . .

 

That is to say, the  _Bellerophon_  was doomed.

 

 

Jenna had had experience with Auron trances, but this was the worst she had ever seen. Still, Molli did appear better, more at peace, though her temperature was above normal. Jenna tried giving her just a few drops of water through a tube, but the patient chocked and the liquid spat out of her mouth. Jenna quickly checked her heartbeat and breathing. On the medical monitors, they were stable, stronger, but so odd. What could be wrong?

There was equipment in the lifecraft to feed Molli intravenously (Jenna wondered if Molli's captivity diet had been as bad as her own), but the fundamental rule of medicine prevailed: first do no harm. She attached more sensors to Molli and activated the full-scan recorders. If and when they got to competent medical personnel, the data gathered might be critical for her recovery.

 

In fact, the worst for Molli was over. The transfer was complete, the process of integration beginning. What was happening now, and Jenna monitoring the signals and the wave patterns had no experience to discern it, was that two consciousnesses were simultaneously struggling to reawaken.

 

The sudden leap of the  _Bellerophon_  sending it scudding _beneath_

space-time left the Space Commander more startled than infuriated. The fleeing ship had severe power and propulsion problems, but this was more than reckless; it was stupid. Capture could be delayed, but not denied by such antics. The readings from their last jump were analyzed, direction and distance were determined once more.

The  _Bellerophon_  was close to the Black Shield. Only automated probes had dared come so near. That was alarming. It would be bad enough if his BattleGroup were to be trapped by the object -- almost as unfortunate if the target ship were to explode before capture. The increasingly anxious communications he was receiving from the Supreme Commander indicated such an occurrence would not be tolerated.

And there was one other thing. Why was the ship heading into the advancing limb of the object, where all logic dictated disaster, instead of the trailing limb? Were they contemplating suicide? Or was it only a ploy, albeit an extreme one? The logic completely eluded him. He shrugged and gave the order. Reason or no, the Battlegroup would continue the pursuit.

And luck was with him. To the horror and astonishment of the ill Mykal and the returning Jenna, at that precise moment, only a few minutes after the last jump, the Federation Battlegroup appeared just outside teleport range. Mykal choked the news over the intercom, just as Avon entered.

Avon, his movements powerful, but awkward in the zero-gravity, had his mind in this state of certainty: the ship was his and nothing would be permitted to change that.

Mykal and Jenna watched paralyzed as the Battlegroup close in. Jenna attended to Mykal; Mykal could not bring himself to shout what he had discovered. Avon broke the spell. He grabbed the dais as he floated over it, then positioned himself in front of the console and strapped himself in. The _Bellerophon_  was just shy of the ergosphere. That might be enough to delay the Battlegroup. It was still a few minutes before it would be within teleport range.

Hailing signals were coming in: the pursuers were trying to communicate again. Avon did not respond. He began preparing.

They heard the voice of Space Commander clear and cold. The BattleGroup, he reported briskly, would soon be within teleport range. The situation of the  _Bellerophon_  was hopeless. They were to stand by -- the Supreme Commander wished to address them.

Jenna snorted. Disgust cleared her mind. She helped Mykal steady himself (he tried to tell her). She pulled out one weapon, gave the other to him, then kicked against a chair and the two sailed up to a ceiling corner. Avon ignored them. He tried to ignore the huge face.

"Avon, can you hear me?" The link was partial. She could not see him. He continued to work.

"Avon," said Jenna, noting his preoccupation, "It's for you."

 

"Very well," he said, "I am listening."

 

Her voice sounded like a chuckle, but it might have been a sob. Mykal cringed; tried again to explain to Jenna (" _Quiet_."). "This channel is secure," Servalan said, carefully measuring out the words. "If Jenna is there . . ."

"I am," she snapped.

 

"Then she should know my offer of clemency extends to her as well. I implore you to surrender. Your ship is just outside the Black Shield. You can be teleported before it traps you. This is your only and last chance." There were several moments of silence.

Avon looked up. There was something odd about their position readings, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "I'll be the judge of that."

"Why are you doing this? There's no point, no reason, none! This is my war, Avon, not yours! These are my prisoners. What can they possibly mean to you?"

"For the moment," he said with complete candor, "whatever meaning you have assigned to them."

She exploded: "Don't play word games with me! I want answers. Why?!"

"I think you should be able to make a guess."

She laughed with a sound like rain going down a gutter. "Oh yes, I can guess. Your quest for the truth. Your blind hope that someday you might finally be free, of him as well as me. Look ahead of you. The only freedom that awaits you is this monstrous grave. Avon," she pleaded, "for the only time in my life, I am begging. Don't destroy everything we have. Their lives are worthless to you. Give it up. The past is dead, and he most of all," her face was distorted in agony. "Oh, Avon, why?"

There was something odd about her, almost as if she could see him regardless. He wanted to know more but he had, however, no desire to prolong this conversation. "You have no sense of humor," he said calmly, "I don't like that in a woman."

"You're a dead man!" she flung the words in his face.

 

"What is death?" he muttered in response, and with a vehemence that surprised even him (s _o this is the first freedom_ ), broke the connection.

The Federation ships closed in. He activated what remained of the defense system. The computer began relaying the distances: "1500 Spacials." Jenna and Mykal assumed position. Mykal shut up. It made no difference anymore.

Avon was almost ready . . . "1400" . . . "1300 . . . "

("Are you ready?" Jenna asked, checking Mykal's stance, not easy to assume under the circumstances. Mykal, his mind numb as his stomach, nodded slowly. "I think so," he murmured. "Good. It won't last long.")

Avon's attention was fixed upon the control panel. He entered the final codes, glanced up to where Mykal and Jenna were and almost laughed. Such ludicrous heroics and all so unnecessary! Perhaps he should have told them. They might be angry with him now.  _Do accept my apologies._ The dots continued to converge. Calmly, he pressed a finger at a glowing button in the center of the panel. Almost ready.  _I shall find time._  He closed his eyes in acceptance.  _Somehow, I shall find time._  Without fear and without warning, he ignited the drive. Jenna and Mykal starred in horror, first at Avon, then at the huge forward monitor where the Black Shield . . . gaped, then grew until it swallowed the whole of space, and before anyone could scream, before the terror of what had happened registered, the  _Bellerophon_  plunged into the swirling ergosphere of the largest black hole in the universe.

 

Freedom

 

"Figure it out!" Avon raised his arm and smashed it down against the console, bruising the arm from elbow to wrist. That is what he said; that is what he did, but it was as if nobody had witnessed it. Jenna kicked off slowly from the ceiling while Mykal listlessly followed. Before them was a black pit. And now they were caught in that pit, a web of finality and terror that would never loosen.

Jenna retrieved Mykal's gun and re-holstered it. Avon remained strapped in. At a loss for ideas, he studied the monitors, trying to make sense of the readings. They had not yet reached the shadow boundary of the black hole: the event horizon. Thus by emotion, not logic, he was sure they still had a chance.

It was a measure of how desperate things were that it was Mykal who would find that chance. He grabbed onto the chair next to Avon, for once oblivious to the man. This was overwhelming. Except for displaying the trapped photons impinging randomly on the sensors, outside was a void. Night without stars, indeed! Yet, it presented a simplicity as close to pure mathematics as the universe came. His mind was awed by the enormity it, even as it yammered. He had an image of animals being drawn to an approaching light. He thought of liquid blackness, of being pulled down into a gravitational bog by midnight roots.

 

"We entered on the wrong approach vector. We can't ride it out, like you hoped," he said simply. Avon looked at him, shocked, then nodded slowly. Now he understood the readings. Mykal's thoughts were mad with fever, boiling with fear, but the words remained calm. Avon's plan was dead. Somehow the statement that they were going the wrong way didn't quite seem to do their situation justice, but it would have to suffice.

The forward monitor looked like it had been washed in black ink. Again the word "midnight" came to Mykal . . .

. . . And that triggered something, that just might work, and it surged out of the bog white-hot and exploded like fireworks. Penrose! The Penrose process!

There had been rumors about reckless individuals trying a similar stunt, racing along the lines of a hyperbolic trajectory past a neutron star. Doubtful, for anyone had tried it would have been stretched to piano wire. But it was possible to extract energy from the ergosphere and that was the point. Theory was definite on that. Yes, it was! And it was possible to use that energy to escape the black hole, as long as they had not crossed the event horizon!

 

To work, angular momentum of the Black Shield had to be transferred to the ship. No, not necessarily the whole ship. A part of the ship would do. And the momentum transfer from ergosphere to that part -- did anyone say lifecraft! -- had to occur at close to light speed. Possible, just barely. With twistor drive, except . . .

The drive, unfortunately, kinked up the equations so bad that it was hard to say what would happen if they ignited it under these circumstances. But the tidal forces were still manageable by the weak-field approximation and there were no alternatives! Increasingly excited, Mykal ran through the calculations in his mind. He thought of O'Kir. Death or Glory!

 

By firing the drive they might be blown out like a cork from a shaken champagne bottle -- for hundreds, perhaps thousands of lightyears. It might also blow them all up period, but . . . the Penrose Process was the only chance. His face was triumphant: the black roots began relinquishing their grip. He was useful at last. He could barely speak. Then knew he had to yell, and yell he did: "I have an idea! We can get out of here!"

 

Even Avon was startled, but his response was restrained. He could still see no way out. The drive was too dangerous to use. That seemed the final objection. "The drive will last a second at most. The ship will never make it. It should never have gotten us this far," he admitted finally.

Mykal, unstrapped, began rising (momentarily forgetting the lack of gravity). Forget that! "We don't need even a second. We don't need the ship. Let me explain." And hurriedly he did.

Jenna was oblivious to them. She wondered if she should go to Molli and be with her at the end. Seldom had her life seemed more futile. To have come so far and to now be in the grip of this thing angered her beyond speech. She would rather have the Federation hang her than endure this helplessness.

Avon, listening closely to Mykal's idea. He was willing to give it a try, though defeat under such overwhelming circumstances had a kind of grim appeal. He never wanted to go out in a dull manner. Having never let despair win a permanent victory over him, it was a strange confidence that guided him, but it had, after all, propelled him this far. He need only go a little further. Surely, luck would not abandon him now.

Time for Plan C. He began rapidly reprogramming the drive, adding a few nuances and was done even before Mykal completed his explanation. Avon's mind was in turmoil, but his body was under control. He felt light, lighter than he had in years, the pull of gravity and pain, psychological and well as physical, drained from him. Mykal's equations were untethered and loosed upon the computer. Avon unstrapped floated slowly free from the chair. He gripped a support bar, his arm still throbbing from the blow.

 

Mykal glanced up, not knowing what to make it. The lightness of action in Avon was astonishing. He had never seen the steel melt, never seen the wood burn; never thought it was possible. He was stunned.  _We're in for it now._  Avon smiled, almost gently at him. Mykal felt his hair stand on end.  _Oh, God, no._

 

"How long before we cross the event horizon?" Avon demanded.

 

"Five minutes," Mykal blurted. "Almost."

 

"Then we have plenty of time." Avon, above the console, reached down and activated the control program. The engines would signal when they were about to destruct, which was good because all fail-safe mechanisms were now bypassed. The sensors were still in place, however: they just had another purpose.

"Can I help?"

 

"Indeed you can," Avon said serenely. "Get back with Jenna. I want the three of you in one lifecraft when we eject. I will be in the other."

Mykal looked aghast. That was not what he had in mind at all. Avon calmly set the countdown for 200 seconds. He pressed the button. It began.

 

Mykal was defiant. ( _Into what dangers would you lead me? Whatever they are, I will be with you!_ ) "I'm staying with you. No matter what happens. I'll get the second capsule ready." It was a feeling singing, lifting within him. At last, he was a match for Avon.

Avon drew closer, lower, loosened the shirt sleeve on his bruised arm. He was almost parallel with Mykal. Jenna started to cry out just as Avon connected with the full force of his fist against Mykal's jaw. Then with one hand on the support bar, he grabbed Mykal and with all his strength pitched the limp body her way.

For the first time since entering the ergosphere, as his body twisted and drifted in Jenna's direction, Mykal saw stars.

(The duality that was Molli/Cally was now fully awake. She unstrapped, pitched the sensors aside, and drifted out the hatch, careful not to make a sound, careful that no one saw her. She had to get to the control room and quickly. She took refuge in a nearby passageway. She did not understand, but she knew what she had to do. Time was pressing. She fought with the new strength aiding her.)

Avon regained his balance and kicked against the dais, intersecting with Jenna now retrieving the unconscious Mykal. "We have less than three minutes. The ship will go into drive and will blow, but milliseconds before that happens both lifecraft will eject and will be caught in the fields. We'll be thrown clear of the ergosphere, taking some of the Black Shield's angular momentum with us. I don't know where the 'craft will wind up, I can't begin to program directions, but they will be quite far away from here and each other. Understood?"

 

She nodded, saying nothing. He gestured to the barely conscious Mykal: "Move!"

She followed him, holding on to Mykal until she reached the lifecraft, then grabbed the hatch and pulled him inside. Avon was already well past. She put Mykal, moaning, on the nearest couch, strapped him down tightly and then she noticed . . .

 

(Molli watched the three go by, concerned as to what was wrong with Mykal (//Mykal?//). She would have to find out, but later ((//A friend.//). She pulled along the wall, moving steadily into the control room; on up to the console, surprised at how deftly she could travel when weightless (//Oh.//). Cally was helping (//A dear friend. But it's not what you think.//) Cally was with her (//Of course.//)

"Avon!" Jenna shouted, rushing out -- just as he began closing the hatch. "Molli! She's gone!"

 

Avon's heart hammered, his arm was throbbed in pain.  _Of all the stupidities!_  He hesitated -- then shouted: "I'll find her. Stay there!" With his good arm, he pulled himself out and plunged back down the corridor. Checking each passageway, each door, he now moved with the surreal sluggishness of a swimmer in dream terror. If she had wandered into the depths of the ship, it would be impossible to find her in time. He would look only where there was a chance. He saw movement in the control room. He kicked with both feet against a wall and lunged ahead, twisting through the opening. He saw her -- saw what she was doing. The controls! The programming! He kicked against a chair and sailed right towards her, just as she turned and faced him ( _It is so simple. Just a few enhancements_.), all girlish and happy.

He grabbed her and both sailed over the console and crashed against the monitor. They bounced.

 

"What are you doing?!" he hissed, struggling for breath as he shook her. She giggled. "Is that how you great an old friend? Not that I'm complaining. (//Cally! Get a grip on yourself!//) She laughed, a laugh of lightness and joy, free for once of the enormous worry and care and had burdened her for years. He held her tight against him, forgetting the pain in his arm and hand. He was certain she was going to fight, but she did not resist. He kicked again and they thrust back down the passageway.

 

"You're wrong, you know," she said brightly, "you can program the drive to give precise directional control, it's not that hard. I'm surprised you didn't try (//Stop showing off!//), but I see things have been a bit rushed. I'll show you sometime." He said nothing. She sighed: "Free at last."

 

Her voice seems to fade in and out, as if the words carry some unseen intent with some hidden meaning. "Who, what are you? Answer me!" he gasps . . .

She replies evenly, "Don't you know? "How soon we forget. You must recognize me, I'm sure, but you were so dull at times." He hears the main engines power up, a distant whine like a teakettle . . . he tries to break their forward momentum, sees a wall coming up too fast, and grabs onto a nearby ladder and stops with a terrible jolt . . . she says, almost as an afterthought: "They're alive, you know." . . . the wind rushes out of him. . . "Who?" he yells, struggling to continue . . .  _Keep control!_. . ."Well, there's Vila and Tarrant and Dayna and me" she looks bemused . . . "only I'm here, and, oh yes, the other guy, or have you forgotten him as well? Shame on you! All of them -- though it is hard to explain."

"You're insane," he says angrily. Now, with all the strength he can summon, he steadies himself for the final push. He can see the nearly closed hatch of Jenna's capsule and sails towards it . . . he dares not overshoot. . . "Well, I hate being alone."

//Cally!! Let me speak to him.// She puts her hand on his face, forcing him to look at her, studying him: "Is it redemption you seek?" Molli asks, gently.

Thirty seconds.

 

"He's dead," he says . . . he wants to scream it out but cannot . . . the memory conjured up floats before him and strength and conviction fail . . . the lifecraft is coming up fast . . .

"Jenna!" . . . The hatch swings open . . .

Says Molli to Avon: "What a curious pattern you are. I think it is something we might share . . ."

He sees Jenna, half out the hatch and shouts, lungs in agony, "Catch!" . . . Now! He releases Molli.

Weightlessness is exhausting. He had forgotten that most basic of space-faring truths . . . "Wheeeee!" Molli/Cally says and glides away and she smiles sweetly at him then twists as she lands in Jenna's open arms . . . Jenna braces herself, catches her and holds! . . . They fall into a confused embrace as Avon tumbles past and Jenna sees an alarmingly insouciant expression on Molli . . . "Hello, Jenna," the face says serenely, "missed you." Jenna says nothing, struggles to get her inside the lifecraft as the hatch groans shut.

Fifteen seconds.

 

Avon wrenches open the hatch of his lifecraft . . . it is too tight . . . then it flies open and hits the wall with a crash . . . he pulls himself through and patches into the main computer and activates the sequencer . . . Red crystal numerals start glowing, counting down . . . Frantically, he snaps the switches and the hatch begins its methodical close.

He tries to speed the shutting with his good arm. . . faster! . . . The agony will not stop . . . Too much to do . . .

Ten seconds.

 

In his frantic mind, amid the clamor of engines and alarms, he hears: //Avon, I almost forgot. I have a message for you: Good luck!// . . . and again . . . //Avon, thank you.// There is a flame in his mind.  _Him. (No!) Him! (Yes!)_  The numbers descend, eternal seconds retreat . . . And bade him follow and so . . . in Jenna's lifecraft, Mykal mumbles in a bad dream and nonsense words leapfrog in his mind and his mouth says in crazy whispers that the pen is mightier than a rose by any other name is Roger Penrose . . . Roger Penrose took his pen and sat on a tack . . . attack! . . . and Roger's Pen . . .  _ROSE! . . ._

The drive ignites, surges to full power. The fields arc through the ship as the lifecraft eject and are caught in the vortex . . . a wave in spacetime whips them around the Black Shield, soaking up colossal energy . . . the whip cracks and they are hurled across the lightyears . . . microseconds later the

 _Belleraphon's_  propulsion system overloads and the engines rupture. There is a flash, spears of searing light shoot out . . .

And the ship smashes to nuclear splinters . . . and the glowing fragments fall gracefully upon the Black Shield.

 

For Jenna monitoring the progress of the lifecraft as it approached the planet, the feeling of exhilaration was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. More than anything, she wanted to think clearly. She had been on the run for nearly ten years -- this was just one more escape. She had been hiding all her life -- this was just one more place to hide. But as the instruments confirmed that the planet ahead was indeed standard (Earth)-type, to her dismay she could not suppress a feeling of elation.

 

Yet this was hardly the time and place for celebrating. She needed the sober twins of rationality and reason. She set determinedly to work, calculating the lifecraft's approach vector. In a few hours, it would take them into a surveillance orbit. If things checked out, they might land within a day. But what then? To one side was Molli, blissfully at rest -- for the moment anyway. Jenna wanted her to stay that way. Whatever had gripped Molli had nearly destroyed all their chances of escape. And Jenna was certain it was not finished with them. For those in search of auspicious beginnings, this was not promising.

War, too, she was used to. One had started; it would require leadership and as the only free member of the resistance (she could not imagine Avon being part of the struggle), the responsibility for the deliverance of humanity and its children had fallen upon her. But she was a loner, not a leader. "Followers" would only get in the way. She shrugged. Perhaps it would not be so difficult after all to drain the joy from the recent turn of events.

 

She went over beside Mykal, now groaning his way back to consciousness (his recorder drifted in a lazy tumble about the cabin). While she would not give one to Molli, she had not hesitated to give Mykal a sedative. She brushed the hair out of his eyes. She spoke softly, turning his head with her hand and examining the blow. His jaw was probably not broken, she concluded, but a solid hit had landed nevertheless. Anyone who could get that response out of Avon couldn't be all bad.

 

"Rough day. How are you feeling?" she asked. He struggled to speak and she stopped him, realizing her mistake. "Don't try to answer; just move your head slightly. I will ask only yes and no questions."

Mykal nodded painfully. The lights were coming back on. The thought of moving his head to any degree, however, was ghastly. He remembered very little of the last seconds before blackout. Were they still on the ship? He looked at the face, half lit before him, as his eyes struggled to focus. Her beauty consoled him. If there ever were a shortage of angels in heaven, he would gladly put in a word to the almighty.

She explained as she gently gave him a water tube: "You're on a lifecraft; Molli is here also. I don't know where we are, other than being far from the Black Shield and within our galaxy and," she paused, "nearing a planet which appears to be earth-like. Good news, wouldn't you agree?" She forced a smile.

Mykal managed a sick expression.

She looked glum.  _This would not do. Time to boost morale!_  "Come on, Mykal," shaking his shoulder, "where's the fire in your belly!?"

Mykal winced. "Sorry," she said, "I think you need to sleep. I will put the craft in orbit. We won't land until everyone is ready." She knew she had to tell him. "Avon was in the other capsule. I don't know if he escaped or not ( _Do I care? I suppose. Why?_ )"

 

Mykal tried to nod in affirmation, then suddenly thought of Molli. He tried to say the name; a drooping sound oozed out of his lips. Jenna stopped him. "I haven't checked yet," she said, calmly. "She wasn't herself for a bit, but she appears to be . . . we'll talk about it later. Try to get some sleep. We're likely to be busy soon, and I'm going to need all the help I can get ( _true enough_ )." Mykal looked worried.  _You have a right to be._

Molli did indeed appear better. In fact, she became fully alert when Jenna nudged her. Jenna had hesitated about saying anything. There was unfinished business between them and it would have to be settled soon, but there were pressing matters at hand. She asked quietly: "Well, how are we feeling?"

Molli/Cally just smiled.

 _Oh dear_. "We're going to be together for a while," Jenna went on. "You and I can share Mykal." The joke fell flat. Seeing herself being studied, she decided to cut short her budding career as a comedian. The expression on the face before her was odd, as if it were going in and out of focus. What was it about Aurons that always made her uncomfortable? "Our luck appears to be holding for now. The planet we are approaching is . . ."

"I know, Jenna," said Cally.

 

Startled, she asked cautiously, "Forgive me, but know what? And how do you know it?"

(//My turn.// said Molli) "It told us. How is Mykal? He didn't looked well when I last saw him."

Jenna moved back ever so slightly. One invalid and one lunatic. "Oh, doing better," she replied. "He and Avon had a disagreement; he's not very talkative at the moment." The words inched out of her: "It told . . . who? What is 'it'?"

"The voice, the 'star-whisperer', the Entity."

Jenna's voice lowered. "I am not sure I understand but," The face looked quizzical and nodded slightly. "Who are you?"

 

(//Molli, I have to talk to her.// //Very well.//) "Don't you know?" she replied in mock shock.

 

There was a feeling of terror and disorientation breaking within Jenna, like she had misjudged a step and now was tumbling forward. "I'm trying not to guess," she whispered.

"You always were so suspicious of aliens."

". . . Cally? . . ." she asked, asserted, wondered.

 

"Yes. No. Both. I/we cannot express it better. This is very strange. I've never possessed anyone before."

Jenna swallowed, her fingers holding firm to the edge of the couch, trying to remain steady. "Naturally, it must be difficult. But returning to the original question -- may I ask what 'you' know about where are we heading? It might help."

 

"You don't seem happy to see me," she looked hurt, then said abruptly: "The planet's name is 'Kaarn'."

Incomprehension registered on Jenna's face.

 

"Sorry, this is not helping. Call me/us 'Li'," she said, "the name means goodness and harmony. The language is ancient, but the sentiment is appropriate -- for all of us, and certainly between you and I (//Don't forget me.//). Try to understand. There has been a transference and now two minds inhabit one brain. She is with me and that can be said without ambiguity. Integration has begun, but it is far from complete. Either will answer if you call."

Jenna's mind was a pinwheel of confusion. "And how long will that take, 'Li'?"

 

//Unknown.//

"I was afraid that was going to be the answer. Look, the name 'Kaarn' means nothing to me."

"Call it 'New Auron', then. That's what my people have named it." She paused (//Time's up.//) and looked directly at Jenna: "There is something we need to discuss, soon. Please accept this for now -- because you spared his life, I forgive you and I think understand you better. I want to understand so much."

She held out her hand slowly, but Jenna looked away, unable to accept it. She asked abruptly, not knowing why: "Has 'it' told you anything about Avon?"

Li looked sad. Both stared out a view port at the planet approaching, glittering blue and bronze, streaked and shiny with cloud veins. "That information was not provided. I believe he and his legend are alive," Cally sighed. "My belief in him lives on, after all knowledge says I have erred (//Where have I heard that before?//)."

"What is your belief, Jenna?" she asked aloud.

Jenna did not know what her beliefs were; certainly not in legends, even if she were one herself. She said nothing and watched as the planet slowly enlarged in the view port and at this brief moment of peace thought of the cliche image of the holiday ornament . . .

 

( . . . While Molli thought: Of the tree that was the firmament, the sustainer of matter and life. It was the tree invisible, not the ornament, that drew her: the tree of life that held the planets and stars, giving life to their children. Adults knew it only as the force of gravity. Gravity, not the myth, supported the scientific cosmos, giving existence form and order. But there might be a connection . . .)

Jenna did want to know about Avon, but the answer to "why?" eluded her. She was grateful he was not with them, but Avon and she still had this in common: their conviction that only life mattered. If he had escaped death, though lacking point or purpose, it was a triumph nevertheless. She respected that. If he were dead, she would never forgive him for evading her with that much too easy of an out. What is death? That was his question, but she did have an answer, should he ever want one. Death was nature's way of ensuring you eventually confronted yourself. For Avon, there was probably no alternative. There had to be a better way.

 

( . . . While Cally thought: It would not be easy to mend the bond with Jenna (for either sister), but it had to be done -- if they were to survive. There was so much to tell. Such wondrous news! But things were rather confused right now; on that, both sisters could agree. Something similar to a mental shaking of hands took place between them. Enough excitement for one day.)

 

It was hours since she had made her address to the Federation, hours since she had left the room of Central Control, hours of reviewing reports and issuing orders. It was almost midnight, but she could not sleep. She wondered if she would ever sleep again. Her eyes were streaked red, her make-up discolored. Could she have brought herself to look in a mirror, she would have been appalled. But this was a face of despair no one had ever seen; and no one ever would, not even herself.

 

Her mind raced over the essentials, reviewing them again. The Citadel had been secured by the Special Services, Marden and those involved in the plot against her were being returned to Earth, the  _Bellerophon_  . . . She leapt over that. What mattered was that none of the regular forces fleets had opposed her. Where was there a will to equal hers?

**(PRIORITY DIRECTIVE: ALL FRONT OPERATIONS ARE HEREBY PLACED UNDER THE COMMAND OF THE SPECIAL SERVICES. FAILURE TO COOPERATE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.**

S.)

 

Understandably, there had been unhappiness with her order that no harm (for now) come to those under Marden. But she had questions about and for her enemies. Thus the usefulness of him and his fellow conspirators had not yet ceased. Only when it was certain that usefulness had ceased, would they be executed.

And Avon. She could not avoid making an official announcement regarding him. She stated that he had been killed; died in the heroic action of crushing the attempted coup against her. A third Order of the Falcon had been awarded, "posthumously". But she would have been the first to admit that the announcement had no credibility. The man who had eluded her in so many ways, for so many years, had done so again. His ship had plunged into the Black Shield (the Battlegroup itself had come close to being swallowed up), leaving the mathematical conclusion that Avon and his companions were annihilated. Only she did not believe it for an instant.

Could the vision have failed? She could only believe it had been delayed, not denied. Avon would return to captivity, as would the others. If he were to fall, it would only be by her hand.

 

("Supreme Commander, we found the following articles belonging to Lord Avon: his cape, his medals, and . . ."

 

"Return them to me.")

 

Flee into the depths of the universe, you will be found! All of existence is mine.

**(PRIORITY DIRECTIVE: A STATE OF EMERGENCY NOW EXISTS FOR THE FEDERATION. ANY INDIVIDUAL, GROUP, OR GOVERNMENT HARBORING A FUGITIVE WILL BE GUILTY OF TREASON.**

S.)

She activated the wall monitor in her bedroom. The view was of her city at night. It seemed to be floating below her, sparkling rocks of light in a darkening sea. To the west, the mountains burned under the flickering light of an aurora, as if a portent of some future disaster. She regretted that it had come to this, for she still wanted him by her side. Just as he had been with her when she triumphed over Blake. Now, not only him, but Jenna and Cally's sister were gone as well. Her's was a bitter fury. An incomplete victory angered her far more than any defeat. She never feared defeat. Such only summoned the most powerful forces within her. Defeat lashed her will and make her eventual triumph that much more certain. But victory delayed was victory denied and she was much too impatient to tolerate that.

She watched as meteors streaked red like bleeding cuts across the sky. She felt it an omen of approval for her decisions. She believed in omens; these told of a struggle more vicious, more terrible than anything that had come before. She welcomed it.

 

**(PRIORITY DIRECTIVE: AS AGENTS OF THE BLACK SHIELD, AURONS, REGARDLESS OF AGE, OCCUPATION, OR PHYSICAL CONDITION ARE TO REPORT AT ONCE TO ASSIGNED DETENTION CENTERS FOR INTERROGATION AND INCARCERATION.**

S.)

He would return to her.

 

(PRIORITY DIRECTIVE: FOR THE DURATION OF THE EMERGENCY, A COMBINED FLEET IS TO BE FORMED AND PLACED UNDER MY DIRECT COMMAND.

S.)

She slapped in the activator and summoned ORAC. "Time to get to work. You are ordered to calculate all possible escape modes, however improbable, from the Black Shield. Prepare a search program: find Avon and his friends! You will have ten thousand ships at your disposal."

#The matter is not of . . . #

 

"Shut up! And ORAC," she said quietly, "you miserable insolent plastic box, I order you to prepare a search pattern for New Auron as well," she snarled, "and for once, don't argue!" She tore out the activator and hurled it across the room.

She had always insisted on gifts from him, as proof of his devotion to her, and now in a way that gave even her pause, she had been given the ultimate gift: the freedom to act without restraint.

With a steady gaze she watched the red-streaked sky, the sky that mirrored so well her soul. She was free to return to space. She was going out among the stars again and now those stars were beginning to fall. She lifted her arms, her fingers stretched trembling to touch the flaming shards.  _And before I am done, I will drag all of you down with me._

 _Thank you, my love,_  she whispered, by the empty bed at midnight.

 

He awoke, disoriented, aching and bleary eyed, his thinking dull but a smile of sorts did for a moment appear on that pained face and for once the smile held neither cynicism nor bitterness. Risk and hope had fused into victory, albeit a small one. It had worked; that was what mattered. A second chance (he would never think of it that way) beckoned.  _I wish your enterprise today may thrive._

 

Those were the words of the ancient play he could never forget. They were not exactly a trumpet blast to glory but they would do. For now, he was nearing a star system, but he didn't want to get excited about it. He set the computer for automatic scan. Well, at least it appeared he was far from the Center. Federation influence and power should be diminished accordingly.

His luck had held so far. He asked only that it hold a little longer.

This system might well be his home for a while, so there had better be an inhabitable planet, and the scanners had indeed reported several promising ones. He had no intention of staying cooped in the lifecraft. He would be out and in charge in no time. He was pressing luck against the wall and pounding on it.

The velocity was high, but deceleration was underway. In a few hours, he could either achieve orbit or enter a planetary atmosphere. Whatever he wanted.

 _Wait a minute._ Assuming any of the planets were inhabited, there should be broadcasts . . . and, whoever he was dropping in on would likely have a local police force, one that might already have spotted him (anti-matter drives are conspicuous and he must have been blazing across the heavens like an incendiary comet for hours now). Roused, and not quite as pleased, he activated the distress beacon and began listening.

The chatter at first was drowned in hissing and static and barely understandable. Plenty of time to think up a good story. He did wonder briefly how Jenna and the others were doing. Probably not the best, but he wasn't going to be guilt stricken over it. She was tough and would pull them through, assuming they were alive and he was somewhat confident they were. Or at worst he had seen the last of them.  _Good-bye and good luck._

A voice, electric with authority, sliced through the static: "THIS IS LINDOR DEFENSE COMMAND, CALLING UNIDENTIFIED SPACECRAFT SIGNALING DISTRESS. IDENTIFY YOURSELF AND PREPARE FOR RENDEZVOUS AND RETRIEVAL. REPEAT, IDENTIFY YOURSELF AND YOUR CONDITION AT ONCE, OR YOU WILL BE PRESUMED HOSTILE!"

 

He groaned. Lindor was a long ways from the Center, to be sure, but this was nothing resembling good luck. If there were any place she was sure to check, it was the one planet that still maintained a tenuous quasi-independence from Federation rule. Lindor meant that pompous President Sarkoff, head of the loosely amalgamated "Lindor Confederacy". A man who admired Blake and in his delicate political position might not be averse to speedily returning to the Supreme Commander the "murderer" of his hero.

Avon swore and reached reluctantly, painfully, for the communications switch. He was indignant. Would he ever be free of that man? The answer was obvious. Why, no more than he would ever be free of her.

So be it. He grinned.  _Now for the hard part_.


	4. The Auron Comedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously Published in Dark Between the Stars #3

_Hegel says somewhere that all great events and personalities in world history reappear in one fashion or another. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second as farce._

 

 

\-- Karl Marx

The Trees of Knowledge

"We are not alone"

 

Jenna Stannis intended the statement as an affirmation. She made the observation dryly, implying a summary conclusion to a long list of non-arguable facts. Yet the tone of frustration persisted. Her Auron friend, "Li", had to know more than she was telling. How typical of an Auron! From the moment the lifecraft began orbiting the blue-bronze planet of "New Auron" -- which is what Li called it (though it had been officially cataloged as "Kaarn" after the name of its almost forgotten discoverer of centuries before), her friend had been measuring out observations with the maddening deliberateness of water torture. Li claimed she had forgotten almost all that had happened recently, but Jenna could not help doubting that.  _What else is being withheld?_

 

And who was "Li"?

Jenna had been scanning the planetary surface for hours. She always strove to be cautious, to overcome her natural impetuosity, and her misgivings about Li's assurances gave her an added incentive. She was going to be as certain as possible about what awaited them ( _as if we have any choice in the matter_ ). They had time.

Did "Li" think the same?

 

Yet despite Jenna's reservations, all planetary parameters, displayed and inferred on the monitors, were within tolerable limits. Below was an environment capable of sustaining human, or at least human equivalent, life. She could live with the read-outs being a little too different, a little too "off". They all could.

So Jenna Stannis, space rebel extraordinaire and survivor for so many years, nursed and cursed her hesitancy. If "Li" were correct, whoever was down there should be friendly. They were Aurons after all: two adults, and several thousand -- God-help-us -- preteens.

_So why aren't they responding to my calls?_

She turned to Li and said, trying to restrain her irritation: "But you already know that, don't you?"

 

Li, floating slightly above an acceleration couch, was a gnawing mystery. How Jenna wanted to accept what had happened and move on, but it was all preposterous. "Li" had informed her that she was now, in fact, two persons: an "amalgamation" of the long-thought-dead Cally and her sister, Molli. And the two remained separate beings -- though for how much longer was an open question. Jenna didn't believe a word of it, but was in no mind to dispute her.  _Should I hold my breath until the truth is forthcoming?_

It was the supposed Cally part of Li who had been keeping up a running commentary on the history of Kaarn: beginning with the terrible event of ten years before when Cally, Avon, and the others (Jenna was elsewhere at the time) had saved all that was left of Auron after the planet had been annihilated. She was familiar with the story, but up until now had only heard it third hand. She never dreamed she would hear it from her former comrade Cally, a woman supposedly as dead as her home planet.

 

Even under ideal conditions it would have been too much to absorb and conditions of late were far from ideal. There did remain the threads of a bond between her and Cally, but it was not going to be an easy matter to renew it. There was also a bond with Molli and it had nearly snapped. Before Jenna stretched a barren landscape of emotion: scarred, eroded, sterile of hope or sense. So she stuck determinedly to the business at hand, while Li watched like an attentive stranger. ( _If you are part Cally, you should know exactly what I am doing. So why are you so curious_?).

 

Every so often, Jenna or "Li" or both, would glance over to the fitfully sleeping third member of the crew: the sedated Mykal. He was recovering from a blow to the jaw administered by Avon. He would be awake for a time, seemingly absorbing what was being said and done in full consciousness, then be back sound asleep the next time they looked.  _I hope he's taking notes,_  she thought.

"Yes, of course," said Li, without elaboration.

Jenna looked at her sharply. ( _Damn their air of superiority. They never abandon it, but what did it ever get them?_ ) She turned away abruptly.

The lifecraft passed over the settlement every hour and a half -- this was their eighth pass -- while Jenna struggled to get a feel for the place, a sense of what awaited them. The settlement was on the shore of a northern sea, on the west coast of either particularly misshapen continent or a very large island depending on your point of view.

 

The location seemed adequate. There was a strong ocean current flowing fast by a sickle of shore, a spit that arched out from the settlement. The current brought warmth from the lower latitudes and considerable rain -- yet it was an ocean without fish, apparently without anything above plankton on the scale of life, unless it was so far deep in the ocean it was impossible to detect from orbit. The atmosphere over the continent was crystal clear -- but there were no birds in that air. The soil around the settlement was tan brown (there was evidence of considerable erosion) --

but no animals on the land. Nothing apparently had evolved past blue-green algae -- except where there was grass, more a kind of wheat actually, which was of distinctly Auron origin. There were also trees, at least around the settlement. Well, they seemed to be trees. The sensors were decidedly unsure on that point.

 

According to her scans, the settlement was no crude affair: no haphazard collection of drafty huts and creaking ox carts. It was large: a count showed over a hundred buildings (of such straightforward design and exteriors that most she presumed had to be dormitories for the thousands of children.) It was quite sophisticated, with installations that looked like power plants and even a communications center judging from the various antennae. But there were no transmissions and despite her repeated attempts to raise them, the inhabitants of Kaarn did not respond.

 

_Why? These people had fled the Federation. They were the last hope of Auron. Surely they would be listening to what was happening in the galaxy. Were they frightened? There was activity down there, and apparently no effort to conceal it.)_

In fact, the whole scene was disquietingly tranquil. And speaking of indifference to concealment, there was even a very unusual building -- was it a house? -- apparently shaped, judging from its morning shadow, like a large cone, its whorls curving inward and upward in the manner of a logarithmic spiral. It must look very like an enormous seashell on the ground. And it was smack on the shore, blatantly conspicuous. Who had separated from the others in and why in so spectacular a fashion?

 

Well, taking the question from the opposite point of view, if it were a Federation trap, it was the most elaborate she had ever encountered. But a trap would enable her to fit it into her knowledge and experience quite comfortably. This settlement refused to give such comfort.

 

What had Li, or the Cally part of Li, told her of the flight from ruined Auron? Just two Aurons aboard the Liberator had carried the future hope of their planet . . . in a couple of medium size rectangular ceramic cases. From that modest and pathetic beginning, they had somehow created this: a thriving complex of several thousand on a planet that was acceptable but far from ideal to humanoid life. Because Jenna did not understand how that could be possible, as a matter of course she deduced there must be danger. ( _How great a danger? Can I trust you to tell me? Or do even you know, my friend(s)?_ )

 

She recalled with irritation an Auron proverb. They're always so smug about how different they are from us. But one can be both mistaken and betrayed. What could be more obvious than that?

She felt her two guns press against her but their mass did not give reassurance.

 

She would delay no longer. Dawn was coming to the settlement. Jenna made her decision: they were going in. I could ask their opinion or give them a long explanation but in either case why labor the obvious?  _Like it or not, I am in charge._

 

It was momentarily amusing to her.  _What shall I call them, my new band of valiant rebels, free to fight again -- thanks to Servalan's recent coup de main? "Blake's Four"? Wretched taste that. "Avon's Three"? Worse._

 _For the lack of anything better, how about "Jenna's Two"? Surely there was a name to cast fear into the dark heart of the Federation, wherever in the galaxy it might rear it's ugly presence. Jenna's Two._ She attempted a smile, but it would not come.

 

She would inform Li of her decision (Mykal was snoring again and she saw no point in awakening him). She programmed the lifecraft for the retro-burst and said as if making a routine announcement, "The planet looks safe enough. We'll land a couple of kilometers east of the settlement, where there is a plain. It' s uneven, highly eroded, but tolerable. Descent will take under an hour," she said as she studied her companion. "Unless there are objections."

"No," said Li.

 

 _Don't overwhelm me with encouragement_. Jenna initiated the countdown sequence. She lay back in the acceleration couch, trying to relax. There was flash of searing light in the view ports and a nudge to the lifecraft. The descent to "New Auron" had begun.

 

Clinician Franton had waited for this moment since first arriving on Kaarn nearly a decade before -- that long? -- the streak across the sky that would mean an end to their exile. She had been alerted to the orbiting craft by the robot sensors hours before and both she and Pater were now watching its orbit: she, from her make shift control room in the "infirmary"; he from his house on the spit. It was the first time they had spoken to one another in months.

 

As she expected, he had insisted there be no response to the calls from the orbiting craft. She had concurred, but reluctantly. Of course, it was best to be cautious, though how one could hide a settlement this size from orbiting surveillance was beyond her. And she could sympathize with, but not share, Pater's suspicions of humanity. As Aurons they wanted peace, and that had never been a gift from their human brothers. But even in that there was disagreement. To her peace meant the avoidance of conflict. To Pater, it meant the destruction of all opposition.

 

Did she fear him? Perhaps more than she wanted to admit, though it was a fear difficult to define or isolate. Most of the time, she was far too busy to dwell on it. One thought of fear as being bred by the unknown, yet she had had ample opportunity to watch her fellow exile over the years, to know him quite well. She was worried about him. Not only his shocking change in appearance over the years (it seemed he was still losing weight), but also his isolation from her and the children.

And she had been yielding authority to him. The struggle had been wearing at her, like a silent relentless flow of water cascading over a rock. She had fought back, but finally her strength was succumbing, her will eroding. She told herself it was for the children. The children were always her primary concern. Pater's distance from them was for the better.

But in the midst of this possibly wonderful news, they had to stand together. If only she could shake her worries . . .

Wait until she told the children!

On the monitor there was a brief, intense flash. The instrument readings showed the craft that had been orbiting overhead was coming in. It had been barely visible at this range; when the sunlight reflected off it, it was no more than a speck in space. She showed Pater the image, but he indicated no interest. It had apparently been enough of a burden to him to endure her excitement over the end of their long exile. This event, she realized sadly, was serving only to drive them further apart.

 

It had not been that way at first. They had stood together in the early days, during special occasions like the children's mass birthday celebrations. But then abruptly he quit attending them. It seemed everything he did of late was abrupt. He had been quite a help in the early days, like the fine job he had done in programming the "Herbert"s, and she was grateful for it. But when he built the house, the "shell house" as she called it, the distance between them became almost unbridgeable.

 

As neutral as possible, she said, "The sensors confirm it is quite small, though it may be coming from a larger ship we cannot detect -- that seems unlikely . . ." her voice trailed off.

 

"Whatever it is, it is unwelcome," he said forcefully, as if that were the only fact of importance. His face glowered at her, his eyes angry. "Inform whoever is aboard that they must leave at once. The children must not know of this."

 

She was shocked. "Pater, that is hardly possible! Be reasonable. These people may need help. Suppose there are injuries or illness? I will not deny them care."

She studied the monitor, enlarging the object as much as possible as it descended. She tried not to look at him. "If it is a lifecraft, they may not be able to leave here in any event." And if it is Federation . . .

 

He interrupted, "It is a lifecraft," he said flatly. He had been a traffic controller, so he knew. "And that fact makes no difference. Isolate them like the contagion they are." Then he suddenly looked weary, as if some point of hers would not leave him in peace. "I grant if they need help we will have to do something, but I wish you would acknowledge the danger."

 

"I acknowledge the possibility, but nothing else until there is evidence." She would not back down.

 

"By then it will certainly be too late."

 

She knew there was no point in arguing. Pater had his own version of reality, and like his fortress of a house, it was impermeable to whatever ocean of reason surrounded it. She wondered fleetingly if these others would be able to reach him, but knew the answer at once. He hated them not for what they might do, but for what they were.

 

She would say nothing more. Let him struggle with himself. She would not contribute to it.

 

"It is truly extraordinary," he said, almost musing and the tone of the remark startled her. It was like glimpsing a stranger resembling a man long thought dead. He seldom offered anything in the way of an observation; had not done so for years, not since his "revelation".

 

"What do you mean 'extraordinary'?" she asked cautiously.

"The odds of course. It must be trillions to one that a ship would become disabled just in our vicinity. One would have to think that there was a plan to it, yet surely the Federation could find a more direct means of announcing its presence."

 

Which was her point exactly. Whoever was descending towards the settlement was almost certainly not of the Federation. So who could it be?

And for a moment she hoped it would be something truly miraculous. She remembered the brave people of the  _Liberator_ , Cally most of all. Were any still alive? She wanted desperately to know, but Pater had shut off all communications from the outside . . . after the awful business on some far off planet called "Gauda Prime".

 

(The whole Galaxy had carried on about it, but he could not accept it.

He simply closed the communication center that day and refused to discuss the matter again. She objected strongly, though she felt his grief, if that is what it was. In the end she acquiesced.)

That was the true beginning of our estrangement, not the house.

 

Hope! It was like moving a massive weight from one's body when over the years limbs had grown weak and limp. She was exhausted and straining, but not even Pater would be permitted to take away the joy of this event. She was ready. Let them come.

 

"They will want to see you, and the children," she said firmly. "And they will have questions about . . . how we accomplished what we did. What shall I tell them?"

 

"Nothing. Put them off. I will program the Herberts to prevent them from entering the settlement. The rest I leave to you." He stared at her. "You know the dangers. Keep them away from me. Keep them ignorant."

Then he said, just before breaking the connection, "For all our sakes."

 

"Report!"

 

The officer's face appeared on the monitor almost as if in rushed anticipation of her command. That struck Servalan at once. Her people were anxious, ready, now that war was being pressed. Not that it was much of a war at the moment. Just more enemies to be herded into the camps (dreary business that). Insurrections and guerrilla attacks, quite fierce at times, to be dealt with. And there was the continuing trouble from the Auronar: far too many were in hiding or resisting.

It made perfect sense to blame on Avon, but it had to be done discretely. It could not be obvious; his name and legend were still powerful. Even if he were dead, which she thought impossible, his memory alone would serve to inspire political criminals. She would have to deal very harshly with him when she caught him; when she found him. When he returned.

There was also Lindor. One never knew who ones allies might be, but surely Lindor would never be among them. Their president didn't just recall their ambassador at the latest developments. No, he closed the entire embassy! It was galling. Sarkoff had thereby promoted himself from a nuisance to a full-fledged irritant. Now, as if that provocation were not enough, he had ordered all trade between Lindor and the Federation suspended. It was an unheard of act of defiance. An intolerable provocation. War was indeed coming, for war to Servalan meant only the question of where to strike next.

Lindor and its allies as targets were becoming a definite possibility.

 

Stern measures were required, but she was not quite ready to implement them. She needed to exercise care now that she was back in the thick of it. The timing and aim of an attack had to be perfect, the results swift and sure, or the disturbances would become even worse. She must be methodical; planning and more planning; each step deliberate. Then it would all fall into place and the real business could begin.

Her people were waiting on her. She must not disappoint them.

Even ORAC, left behind on Earth but with whom she was in constant contact, seemed to be anticipating the drop of her other shoe. In a way, her computer counselor seemed almost "appreciative" of the new, more active, Servalan -- though admittedly she was never sure of how to assign emotional states to the thing, if such were even possible. Well, it did seem slightly less insolent of late.

She had to find Avon. And "New Auron".

 

They could be on different ends of the galaxy for all she or anyone knew. But a "hunch", she smiled, glorious feeling that it was, told her that if she found one, the location of the other would become obvious. ORAC understood and agreed.  _If only all my people were like you._

 

"We have now entered the prime search cone," the officer stated -- the "cone" being the volume of most probable location, given the calculated Black Shield escape modes (a colossal amount of computational work had gone into that one!) that could have been used by Avon and his fellow fugitives. Everyone agreed that the ship itself could not have survived. It was by lifecraft then that they had ejected and escaped.

 

" . . . based on the volume of the search area, the number of planetary systems involved, and assuming each ship of the Combined Fleet is capable of searching . . ." he droned on.  _God, what a bore!_  But she forced herself to listen regardless. She had to know all the facts and all the assumptions at each stage of the operation, the most expansive (and expensive) space search in history. She would overlook nothing; leave nothing to chance. No one would be spared.

" . . . and based on the above factors, it appears that the most likely search time, unless one assumes," he almost seemed to be clearing his throat, "extremely fortunate circumstances, would not be less than . . . " and there he halted like he had stepped into quicksand.

 

"Yes?" she drawled with only a hint of impatience.

 

"Madam President, uh, well, ten thousand years." He waited for the explosion.

But it did not come. No one said this was going to be easy! The sheer magnitude of the numbers presented such a barrier to success, that it actually made her feel rather good. What a delightful challenge! In truth, she had expected the figures to be even worse. But it was clear that the present search "cone" was far too large. Even the search for New Auron alone might require months, and ORAC did have an idea where that might be.

She had an inspiration. She had the Combined Fleet, did she not? Why not "combine" the objectives? My, what a brilliant idea! There was no stopping her now!

 

"Tell me," she asked idly, as if toying with the officer, "out of mere curiosity, what inhabited systems exist in the full search cone?"

 

"Several, Supreme Commander. They range from Lindor at the nearest to . . ."

 

"Enough!" That was it! "Did you say Lindor?" The officer nodded, terrified, as if he had committed an inexcusable breach of manners. "We have been monitoring Lindor, I presume," she asked ominously.

 

"Naturally, Supreme Commander. Surveillance of Lindor has never slacked since . . ."

She silenced him. "Good! And there are no indications of anything unusual taking place there as we speak?"

 

She trusted him to know what she meant. But in truth there were so many variables. Lindor was a large system. The volume of trade and traffic in and out of it was enormous. And Sarkoff could certainly not be trusted now to keep her informed. He had always been too close to the Auronar; his revolting daughter was even married to a prominent Auron. "None, as far as is known," the officer replied slowly.

 

She scowled. She suspected the man either knew less than he should or more than he was telling. He shifted uncomfortably.

 

"Dismissed!" she snapped. He saluted sharply and vanished in the monitor.

 

In the old days, she had always been in the thick of command. How she loved being on the bridge! Now, even in the depths of space, surrounded by thousands of ships, she wondered if she had gained anything from no longer being bound to Earth. Physically, she was nowhere and everywhere. (She meant that literally: with teleport capability, no one could be sure on which of the ships she might be on at any given moment.) Mentally, her frustration and feelings of impotence were unresolved.

 

She entered the code for the direct link to Earth. Time for another chat. "ORAC," she said, organizing her thoughts, "I have just had a most distressing report. You no doubt recall our discussion of the escape of Avon and his friends from the Black Shield using the so-called 'Penrose Process' . . ."

 

#It is the only possible means of escape, using the rotational energy of the ergosphere . . .#

"Yes, yes, of course, you have persuaded me, now please don't be dull."

Some things never change.

 

#Then what is the point of the question?#

 

She frowned. "Well, the point is this: is it possible to control a ship under the given circumstances so as to eject from the 'ergosphere' at a precise vector," she heard her voice rising, "so as to intercept a targetplanet, say several hundred lightyears distant?"

 

For once ORAC seemed stymied in silence.

"Well?!" she demanded.

 

#It is possible,# the device said, finally.

 

She was radiant. "Could you do it?"

 

Again a pause. #No,# it admittedly sullenly. #Not in the time allotted. It would take computational capacity far in excess of my own or anything I could access.#

 

She was triumphant. "But there is an entity that possesses that power does it not?! Of that we are certain. That disgusting thing in contact with Molli. That thing on Terminal!" she clapped her open palms.

 

#That is correct.#

 

"Thank you. What would I ever do without you?" She broke the connection. Things were falling into place. It wasn't a proof, but her "intuition" had never failed her and now she felt it was wrapped around her with iron bands of certainty. It must be. Terminal, the thing, whatever it was that resided there, had aided and directed their escape. A solid clue, but where did it lead?

She summoned the 3-D map of both ORAC's search projections: for New Auron and Avon. The first search cone was contained snugly within the second. And there was Lindor, just a few hundred lightyears beyond the overlap. If she restricted the search to that narrow intersection, and if another of her "hunches" was correct (had they ever failed her?), things might be speeded up considerably. Only a few thousand stars to comb and then she would bag both her quarries.

 

She summoned the Space Commander. "There has been a change of plan, Space Commander. Call it my intuition, if you will. I will download the coordinates following this conversation. You will search the defined volume of space exclusively using every ship of the Combined Fleet."

 

"Understood, Supreme Commander. May I ask what has prompted the change?" Other than time, of course, but he would not have been surprised if she had pursued the original search pattern until they all died from exhaustion.

 

"Oh, as I say, something like a hunch," she said gently, a knife-edge to her voice. "Nothing more than that."

 

The drogue chute opened first. Jenna saw a white mass out the view port billow and open with a tremendous snap. The lifecraft buffeted. She checked the altimeter. Ten kilometers up, falling fast, but decelerating.

 _Let's hope they tested the shocks_. Landing was going to be scary. She had never landed in anything like a lifecraft except in simulations. She saw an awakened Mykal move groggily like he was starting to unstrap and motioned him roughly to lie back. Li looked tense. They were now sweeping over the sea, a blue plane seared by morning fire. Jenna felt a brief panic.  _We're coming in too fast. We're going to hit the water._  But their course according to the instruments was nominal. She saw with relief the shoreline flash past, the strange house, and then -- they were right over the settlement and the things that looked like trees thrust up to the view ports. The clearing was ahead. Ground and vegetation rushed up. She closed her eyes and with a jolt they landed. The craft tilted, then held steady.  _And may we never have to ride in this thing again._

 

Jenna was the first to unstrap, then "Li". Both helped Mykal and supported him as they moved to the hatch. Jenna touched a panel and the hatch groaned open to reveal a dark blue sky. Things were askew, however

\-- the lifecraft was pitched a good 30 degrees. She offered to help Mykal down but he shook his head. Both then jumped, landing on sandy soil. Jenna looked around, saw the chute flapping away like a cartoon ghost. Mykal turned to help Li exiting behind them. "Molli," he said. "Please call me Li," she replied and quickly looked away as she landed beside them. He looked at her bewildered.

They were out a couple of minutes before they noticed, at the top of the rise, a human figure.

 

Jenna motioned to Li. "Could that be Franton?"

"Yes," said Li. (//It's her.//)

"Can you telesend to her? She might get nervous seeing someone in a Federation uniform."

 

Li nodded. "I'll try, but telesending will be difficult until integration is complete."

 

Mykal looked at her curiously. "What do you mean, Molli?"

 

"Li!" she snapped. (//Cally!// //Sorry.//)

 

 _When are you going to tell him?_  thought Jenna.

 

Mykal looked hurt. "Glad you're feeling better." He was thinking:  _Frankly, I preferred her when she was unconscious._

 

Jenna said to both of them, "Please."

 

Li telesent the greeting and a shout returned: "Cally!"

 

(//Close enough.// //Agreed. Half-right.//)

The woman ran forward, nearly tripped twice, and was out of breath by the time she reached them. "This is astonishing," she gasped. "Of all people, Cally!" She embraced Li. "I thought this," she gestured to the lifecraft, "portended something extraordinary. Was I ever right!" For a few moments everyone looked embarrassed.

 

"And you must be," Franton said to Jenna, then stopped. "I'm sorry, I

have absolutely no idea who you are."

Jenna kept her irritation in check --  _You would know if you had answered my calls_  -- and managed to sound almost friendly in her response. "Jenna Stannis. A friend," she stressed the word as she held out her hand. "Ignore the uniform. I got it second hand."

 

Franton shook her hand while frantically trying to remember. "Another of Blake's people! But you were reported dead or missing after . . ."

 

Jenna stopped her. "It's a long story. Let's just say that my MIA

status has been upgraded." She looked at Mykal, then Li. "Do you have medical facilities here? My companions, this is Mykal by the way, have had a rough time of late." She looked pointedly at Li, then handed Franton the memory cube with Li's recent medical history.

 

Franton looked at all three curiously. "Yes, of course. We have an excellent infirmary. Follow me. But be careful," she said, indicated the ground, "we have quite an erosion problem around here," she said as they began walking. "It's one of the reasons we introduced Auron grasses. The planet has nothing like them; they take over everything," she sighed. "It makes a bit more like home and it does help . . ."

Jenna didn't respond. She was trying to think their situation through.  _If what Li said is correct, these people have no ship at all._  "I'm sure we all have a lot of questions," said Jenna, "Are you in charge?"

 

Franton paused, uncertain as to how to answer. She said casually, "We can discuss the administration of the settlement later. It's not that important." She said directly to Jenna, "I regret not responding to your call. We have to be cautious. Anyway, you must all be tired and hungry," Franton added cheerfully.

 

Mykal was tired and hungry but he was not going to appear weak. Rather stiffly he said, "I won't be needing medical attention, but we will need a place to stay." He glanced back at the lifecraft. "I don't think any of us want to sleep in there." Looking at Jenna, he said "I am feeling better. Amazing what a full rest period will do . . ." But he did not complete his statement.

 

For the first time he noticed the trees. They lined the path to the settlement, stretched to the west and south in perfect rows as far as he could see in the morning light. He had never seen anything like them. Dozens of meters in height, each seemed identical to the others. The branches, bearing what looked like fruit or pods, shown in the morning light like they had been polished. Each bore huge black leaves that seemed as delicate as feathers, all following in unison, like some vast sylvan ballet, the rising sun.

 

For once, Mykal forgot his stomach. "These trees," he said, gesturing around him. "Their precision and regularity . . . they almost seem like they were mass produced. Are they native to the planet?"

 

In the faint light, Jenna saw that Franton looked uneasy. "No," she answered carefully.

Franton picked up the pace, avoiding looking at the trees. "It's very chilly this morning. I'm certain that's something we can all agree on. We can talk about the trees some other time."

 

Except for Franton's office and living quarters, the "infirmary" was unoccupied. She explained there were injuries among the children -- how could it be otherwise? -- but in practice the building was hardly used. Since it had several rooms, a kitchen, and storage areas, it would be an ideal place for the "visitors" (she had trouble with the word) to stay. Naturally, they were welcome to do so, she assured them.

It was the Cally part of Li that gave Franton her immediate problem. She wanted to speak with Pater, insisted on it in fact. Franton's efforts to move the conversation elsewhere did not work. Finally, Franton assumed an air of "very well, but you won't like it" and led the three before a large monitor in her office. There they sat, except for Mykal who stood behind them. Franton entered a few keystrokes and the visage of Pater suddenly appeared. He filled the monitor, eyes and mouth and little else, as if his face were pressed against the glass. It was as if he were, Franton thought, desperately trying to get out.

 

Even with Pater, Jenna noted, Franton had that eager to please demeanor of someone who was anxious but trying very hard not to show it. It was beginning to annoy her.

 

"Pater," Franton said quietly, "I apologize for disturbing you again. I know what you said, but look who are our visitors!"

 

Li leaned forward (//Let me handle this.// "Pater," she said, "do you remember me? It's good to see you again."

Pater just stared at her. Jenna shook her head slowly. Mykal looked more puzzled. After several awkward moments, Pater finally responded. "Hello, Cally. This is a surprise." From the way he said it, it was the kind of delightful surprise you experience when you look inside your shoe and find a large, gaping hole.

 

She nodded slowly, drawing back. Franton continued to have a forced smile. Jenna and Mykal looked at each other and frowned.

 

"Perhaps you had best introduce the others. We haven't all day," said a resigned Pater.

 

"Of course," replied Franton. "Beside me is Jenna Stannis." Franton positively beamed now, "a former member, like Cally, of Blake's rebels. And behind me is Mykal . . . I'm sorry, but I didn't get your last name."

 

"Hodos."

 

Now Franton was beside herself. "Hodos! One of the great families of Auron. Isn't this wonderful, Pater!" She looked at Pater for confirmation.

 

And did not find it. Pater got right to the point. "It is crucial that you three understand you cannot stay. While I acknowledge the difficulty of your position . . . "

 

"We're not in any position . . ." Mykal snapped.

 

Jenna shot a glance at Mykal and took over. "The lifecraft cannot take off. The anti-matter drive would devastate the area. Even if we could make it to another planet in this system, none appear suitable for human life. In the traditions of space law, we ask for refuge," she added, "from the Federation."

Pater looked knowing and superior. "So you are still on the run, after all these years? Why do I find that hard to believe? What could possibly be left, and who could care, of the fabled seven -- thanks to Avon?"

 

"You will have to ask him. Look, can we use your communications building?" Jenna asked.

 

"Absolutely not! It is forbidden." Pater snapped.

 

This was too much for Mykal, who already looked upon himself as a battle hardened veteran. Despite the blow to the jaw, Mykal's respect for Avon was only slightly diminished.

 

"Nor do I think you would want the Federation here to confirm our story!" Mykal angrily responded.

 

"Ah, another warrior Auron. In Blake's image, no doubt. You will have to forgive us, we have been out of touch with recent history. Perhaps you regret having recently fled a battle. Do you look forward to fighting another day?" he sneered.

 

Mykal had an amusing reply, but Jenna's expression told him to keep it to himself. But before she could speak it was Li who rose to the occasion.

(//This guy makes Avon look congenial. I thought you said he was our friend?// //He was.//)

She stood and said, "Both Mykal and Jenna have saved my life, Pater. In Jenna's case, several times. This settlement was made possible because of the efforts of myself and Blake's people; that includes Avon. There is no reason to insult them. We regret troubling you, but a request for refuge is within reason. Neither I, nor my companions, wishes to debate the matter."

Pater seemed slightly mollified. "I am asking only that you grant the delicacy of our position and our desire to avoid any," he sought the word,

"entanglements."

 

"Excuse me," said Jenna, startled. "Then you don't know what is happening?"

 

"Nor do I care."

 

"Pater!" demanded Franton, "these people are our responsibility."

 

"The children are our responsibility!" Pater shot back. "I have nothing further to say. You three can stay for now, but you will have to leave soon. How and where is your problem."

 

Franton was resigned. "Very well, Pater. We can talk about this later."

 

Pater was silent, his face a mixture of fear and disgust impossible to untangle. Then he disconnected, the monitor a snowstorm of gray and black.

 

"I apologize," Franton gestured helplessly. "There is no excuse for him being like that. Much has happened since we fled Auron. I'm afraid," Franton said, again uncertain how to put it and worried the visitors already were too suspicious, "Pater has changed."

 

After Li left with Franton for the medical examination, Jenna walked outside with Mykal. It was early morning, the color of the sky the azure of a seashell. There were sounds stirring, like singing Jenna thought, in the settlement. And despite a light mist both could see robots flitting about the campus buildings, as if in a parody of humans trying to keep warm.

 

Neither Mykal nor Jenna was eager to speak, but both sensed that there was something terribly off about this place. And both were put out with themselves. Jenna told herself she had been impetuous. It was a reproach almost as bad as "sentimentality".  _And who does that remind me of?_

 

For his part, Mykal was ashamed. He had let his temper get the better of him. Again.

 

 _He is new to this sort of thing. He will learn, will have to learn, and quickly._  Jenna took a deep breath and tried to relax.  _I need someone I can count on and you don't kick a kitten._  "Mykal" she began, "I've been thinking that my life was a lot easier when I was 'dead'. But since there is no going back, at least for now, I need all the help I can get." She put a finger firmly on his shoulder, "Can I count on you to perform an assignment for me?"

 

"Of course," he said brightly, glad to be let off so easy, but his elation died almost at once. To perform a mission for Jenna! He would do it! But he dreaded the thought of disappointing her. How could he possibly live up to the expectations of one of Blake's chosen?

 

"I want you to do some detective work while I try to find out what is happening out there," she withdrew her finger and glanced up.

"You mean Avon?"

 

 _Damn!_  "Mykal, forget Avon. What he and I did, or tried to do years ago, no longer matters. It's not that I cannot forgive him -- I can imagine falling to so low a state," she sighed, "the point is we cannot trust him. My concerns at the moment are much more immediate -- like this place and these two (she almost said "Aurons"). What's your impression?"

 

"You mean the whole set up?"

 

"Yes. Why is Pater so eager for us to leave?"

 

Mykal didn't know how to respond to that. He was still fuming at the man, but he didn't consider him a threat. He imagined for the moment the three of them moving to the other side of the planet, but somehow he didn't think that would satisfy Pater. And what of "Bratworld", planet of 5000 preteens? And the trees. It was all very strange . . .

 

He said, "Something dangerous is being hidden." He hoped Jenna would not ask him to elaborate.

 

"I agree," she said. "Find out what that 'something' is."

 

Mykal nodded slowly, proudly.

"And that means keeping your cool," she said sharply. "The last thing we need now is to antagonize anyone, no matter how . . .  _severe_  the provocation."

"Understood," he agreed. "It won't happen again."

 

"Good. Now here's what I want you to do. On my former planet, which as you know is a haven for smugglers, we had a technique used to detect intruders when sophisticated devices were unavailable. We would take a knife and stick the blade into the ground. Then we would hold an ear to it and listen. Crude, but it's remarkable how effective it can be. I want you to stick a knife into the ground and listen," she gestured in the direction of the settlement. "Just listen. Report back when you know what they are hiding. Got it?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"Only when you are certain, report to me. Until then I am going to be busy."

 

It was sobering to be out on one's own. That made him remember. "You and Molli? I'm worried about her."

 

"You mean 'Li'."  _This was not going to be easy._  "No, just me. Mykal, something has happened to Molli. I'm not sure what, but when I told you she hadn't quite been herself, I wasn't joking. She is not quite the same person. Don't press her. It is possible she is indeed part Cally. ( _Who knows with Aurons!_ ) It is also possible she just thinks she is part Cally. Don't play psychiatrist to her. Let her sort it out; eventually, maybe quickly, she will be able to talk with you about it. Catch my drift?" He seemed to be taking it well. "As for myself, I would like to use that," she pointed to the building with the antennae, "but since it is not 'permitted', I will have to make do with the lifecraft's equipment. That's where I'll be."

Mykal looked confused. "I still don't understand. Doing what?"

 

"Trying to determine how much time we have before the Federation finds us."

 

He groaned. "Do you think that is likely? I mean, they haven't found this planet in ten years."

 

"I doubt they were looking that hard and while I don't understand why, apparently Avon never told them where to find it. But now they have a very strong incentive. The mere fact that this place exists makes it a threat to Servalan. Believe me, I know how my life works: they will find this place. And soon. So as a member of 'Jenna's Two'," she tried to smile, but it came out a grimace, "I'm also counting on you to find a way to get us out of here."

 

Is that all? Mykal acknowledged the gravity of the problem, his concern for Molli momentarily receding. "'Jenna's Two'. I like that. The Federation will cringe in terror at the sound of it," he said laconically.

Jenna did not respond. "Cringe" was certainly the correct way to put it, though as a result of terror seemed highly unlikely.

 

"Well, Cally," said Franton brightly, playing the role of family physician to a hilt, "it's such a shock seeing you after all these years." She looked at her closely: "I had been so worried. Now it's like you have hardly changed!"

 

(//Well, when are you going to tell her?// //Me?// //You.// //She'll catch on soon enough.//)

 

"How are you feeling?"

 

"Tired." (//Very tired.//) (//Extremely tired.//)

 

Franton adjusted the apparatus and inserted the memory cube Jenna had given her. The patient watched with apprehension. It did not take long for the brain scan data to become unusual. Less than a minute after the memory tracings lit up the monitor, Franton was frowning, performing adjustments and system checks. But the tracings were unchanged, as weird as ever. Even by Auron standards, she thought, these brain wave patterns were very strange.

 

Franton sat beside Li. "Now Jenna did not elaborate on your condition," she said, trying to put it delicately. "Did something unusual happen to you recently?"

 

(//You might say so.//)

"Look, you will find this hard to accept," Li said as Franton looked puzzled, "but I am not exactly Cally. In fact, I'm not sure who I am," she sighed.

 

(//Maybe you're not, but I am!// //You're a big help.// //Look who's talking!//)

 

"I don't understand. You are Cally, aren't you?"

"Partly," said Li, "but I am also her sister -- not Zelda, but Molli, the other one. Cally has become part of me, or me of her. I suppose it's all the same. Anyway, we are 'blending'. Has anything like this ever happened?" (//Pity them if it has.//

 

Franton returned her attention to the monitor, putting the memory cube on the equivalent of fast forward. Finally, with considerable care, she said, "Not to my knowledge. I believe you are telling the truth. These readings don't make sense under any other interpretation," she forced a smile, "but I wish I had one. I do recall Zelda mentioning a third sister, but Zelda was a very close-mouthed woman. She never elaborated and, of course, manners prevented me from prying. Poor Zelda! I miss her. She was a brave woman, if dull. Why don't you tell me what happened."

Li nodded slowly. //I agree, time to tell the whole story.// //Except

. . .//

"I don't remember a lot of what happened, especially after the two of us were 'joined', but here goes . . ."

So the Cally part of Li began with what had happened to "Avon's Six" following the destruction of Auron: Cally's "death", Servalan's triumph, Molli's messages. Then Molli took over: the "entity", Molli's capture, escape, and "reunion" -- if one could put it that way -- of the sisters.

(The business about Blake and the others being alive they kept to themselves. Neither sister knew how to explain it in a rational manner. It was one of those things that made less sense the more you talked about and it was far too important to simply mention in passing. The timing and presentation had to be perfect.)

Franton decided detailed questioning would have to wait. "Well, that's quite a story. You know," she sighed, "I never understood my father's obsession with the cloning/telepathy program. I carried on his work, but I questioned it more than once. I thought it would lead to nothing but difficulties. Maybe I would have understood if we had had more time with the Project . . .," her voice died as she realized her mistake.  _Pater was right. That must not be discussed with the visitors._

Li glanced at her. "What 'project'?"

 

"The cloning project, of course," she quickly lied. "Anyway, I believe what you have told me. The instruments speak the truth," she said with an airy voice as she turned the machine off. "So, what should I call you?"

 

Li shrugged. "Call me 'Li'. Everybody else does."

 

"Well then, 'Li', welcome to Kaarn. I think it best you stay here while I

observe you. There are plenty of rooms, just take one."

 

Li had a sudden thought. "When can I see the children?"

 

"Soon, I think," said Franton, unhappy. Pater would be furious. "You must understand you will be quite a shock to them. They know little of their history."

 

Li looked at her oddly. "You haven't told them?"

 

"Oh, we will, eventually," she hurried along. "Pater and I have discussed it quite a bit but I agree with him that it would only trouble them for now. They are so happy," she smiled again, even less convincingly.

(//This is bad.// //She's hiding something.// //She's hiding a lot.//)

 

But Li decided not to press. "I'm sure you know best. It's just that I have been eager to find out how the you both managed this. It seemed impossible for only two people."

 

Franton rolled her eyes. "Without the robots it would have been impossible! Even with them, it's like herding cats."

 

"I can imagine. Forgive me for asking, but I have an obvious question.

What do you plan to do in a few years when . . ."

 

"When what?" Franton looked confused.

 

"Well, you know." (//Puberty, Dr. Franton.//) (//Sex.//)

 

"Oh. That." She sighed deeply, her voice taking a remote tone, one that mixed awe with despair. "We try not to think about it."

 

Inside his study, the waves pounding against the curved walls of the house, Pater was burrowed into thought: what might be the significance of this extraordinary event, this incredible coincidence? Perhaps he had acted in haste in his insistence that the visitors depart at once. Since his "revelation", when he realized he had been chosen by fate to complete the mission of his people, he had waited for a sign. For years, he had thought it would come only when the children were ready. But now he was unsure. It was arrogance to presume how Nature would reveal itself. Perhaps he was being "told" he would not have to bear the whole of the burden of destiny, though he would gladly accept it. No, others might join him. In fact, he had hoped at one time even Franton would. But she had become an impediment.

 

It would seem the reappearance of Cally, of whom he still had slight admiration, and Jenna changed nothing, offered nothing . . . but the young man with them might be a whole different matter. What was his name? "Mykal Hodos". Yes. This Mykal had spirit and intelligence, qualities in the young which generally horrified Pater, but which might be useful if properly guided and controlled . . .

 

He stood and stared out the huge window which embraced the whole of the living chamber. As the sun rose, the solar tide (Kaarn had no moon) receded. He liked the feel of the power of the elements, a power he let surge around and within him. They were signs of nature's blessing and that made them good.

 

He must know more about this Mykal. He would reprogram the security system! The Herberts would no longer function to keep all the visitors away from the children. For Mykal, the door would be left ajar. Pater would watch closely when Mykal walked through it. And if Mykal should be promising . . .

 

With Cally asleep ("Li", that is -- this was going to take some getting used to), Franton did a systems check. She expected to find the Herberts on full-security alert -- an option that had not been used since thefounding of the settlement -- and she was worried how extreme Pater would make it. It was thus reassuring to discover that none of the precautions taken would bring serious harm to the visitors. So she needn't feel too guilty about not warning them. In fact, it appeared her fears were unfounded. Pater had actually programmed the security system of the children's complex to permit Mykal to enter. He would be free to explore the settlement at will. For there to be a breach at all in Pater's paranoia ranked as nothing less than a miracle to Franton.

What a surprising choice, she thought, but a pleasant one.

So an outsider would be let into the secret of the settlement. As she disconnected from the system, she was certain this was a step in the right direction. That there was still hope for Pater; hope for them all.

Of Plants and Plants

 

Shortly before noon, Mykal entered the campus, the educational and housing complex of the 5000 surviving children of the Auron holocaust. Laid out like a vast checkerboard (he noted at least a 100 identical cubical buildings), as Jenna had indicated this was no minimal survival enclave. It was a carefully if dully designed, fully functional, city. While one could complain about the architect lacking in imagination, the mere fact that the complex existed was extraordinary. Two people, even with robotic help -- and the robots Mykal had encountered were not at all suited for construction -- should not have been able to build anything like this. The city was even complete with landscaping. Every building and playground was surrounded by, every thoroughfare was lined with, plants of extraordinary designs and colors. And, of course, there were the trees. Their convoluted loveliness and mechanized grace, in such contrast to the chaotic wastelands to the east, went a long way to make up for the joyless layout of the settlement.

So through the parks and play areas Mykal went, as if on a holiday stroll in a place he shouldn't be. Past the buildings, the trees, and the bizarre flowers. He had never seen a star-shaped flower formed from nested triangles in a green and pink polka dot pattern. Certainly not on Auron. Where had they come from? He thought of plucking one and giving it to Molli ("Li!") but could not bring himself to do so. Even touching the thing seemed wrong.

The buildings themselves continued to intrigue; he could find no evidence whatever of assembly. It was almost as if they had grown on the spot. Everything was seamless and apparently impervious to damage. When he was sure no one could see him, he tried scratching the surface of one building with a sharp rock. The scratch was visible, barely, but as he watched, even it slowly disappeared, almost as if it were healing. There was not the slightest hint of wear or weathering on any of the buildings. It was as if they had been constructed only yesterday, yet they must be years old.

 

Mykal, having no particular plan of action, went where curiosity led him ( _as expected the communications center was sealed_ ). He observed the children, heard the youthful shrieks of eager play. Yet it seemed no one had an interest in him. They would stop briefly and stare at him silently as he passed, then resume whatever activity they were engaged in as if nothing of importance were taking place.

The robots seemed even less intrigued. He watched them flow by, humming with activity and purpose. Most were of a standard cylindrical shape but a few were were shaped like rounded cones, others ablate spheres. In all cases their functions eluded him. Occasionally one would stop and appear to study him from a distance before moving on, but like the children, seeming to have no interest or concern.

 

Had they been informed there were visitors? In one instance, he stumbled into a class and no one paid the slightest attention to him. Embarrassed, he left quickly.

It was frustrating to someone used to getting quick answers. Yet Mykal was moved: the children of Auron had survived. Weird as it was, they could have done a lot worse than this place.

 

Finally, after two hours of this aimless wandering, he decided to try a direct approach. Like it or not, the children were his best chance for information. Confronting one of the students did not seem altogether out of line. He positioned himself outside a building and waited until the children ran outside -- the traditional joy at the end of the school day. He then entered the building hoping to find a child left behind. This tactic seemed promising -- he certainly had been kept behind in class often enough.

And luck was with him. There was a girl at a work station, staring at an enormous monitor and with her was a robot instructor. The student was thin with dark hair and an intense face. The robot a rounded shiny cone about a meter in height. Mykal sat beside them at an adjacent workstation, doing his best to look harmless, politely hoping to be noticed. He received one glance by the girl.

 

He was sure he was being studied by the robot.

 

 _I'm glad to be here too._  "Uh, hello. My name is Mykal. What's yours?"

 

The girl stopped what she was doing and glared at him. "Trysha. My friends call me 'Trysh', but since you're not my friend, I ask that you not. The Herberts told us there were visitors, but that we were not to approach them," she said stiffly, returning to her work.

 

_Well, it's a start._

 

#That is correct#, the robot chimed in in an impertinent tone. #Young man, please state your business, or you will be requested to leave.#

 

Mykal was wounded, but he was on a mission. He would not fail! And what are "Herberts", anyway?

 

"And who might you be?" he asked innocently.

 

#My designation is HERBERT 92X,#" it responded crisply.

 

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. 'Herbert 92X'?"

#Correct,# said the robot. *The designate is a corruption of the acronym for Heuristic Education RoBoT, number 92 of the experimental series.#

 

"Oh," Mykal responded, more relaxed now. "I have seen a number of robots since arriving here. I guessed they were general function types, not special purpose."

 

The Herbert was conciliatory. #Robots here are programmed for well-defined functions; it was decided, however, that there was no need for a profusion of designs, other than some slight variations. Thus your conclusion is in error, though understandably so. Of the 'Herbert' series, there are approximately 200 robots, two assigned to each dormitory.#

 

He glanced over to Trysha, She seemed bored by the conversation.

 

"Say 'Herbert 92X'," said Mykal, "I don't want to interrupt anything, but I am terribly curious -- would you mind if your pupil and I had a little chat?" He felt inspired now. "It might be an interesting part of her educational experience."

 

The robot paused, as if thinking it over. "#This is extremely unusual, yet there is apparently,# it paused again, #nothing improper about your request. The conversation, however, must be observed, as the children are always to be chaperoned.#

 

Mykal exuded gratitude. "I appreciate your concern. I'll just sit here with 'Trysha', ask a few questions and then be on my way. Is that acceptable?"

 

#Agreed,# replied the Herbert, and busily began what appeared to be maintenance on an unoccupied work station.

Mykal turned to Trysha, still absorbed by what was happening on the monitor.  _There is one thing I am dying to know._  "Trysha, can the children telesend?" he asked in a low voice.

 

//Of course, silly man. But it drives them crazy.//

 

"Them?" Probably the two adults, though it might mean the Herberts, or both. This particular Herbert moved slightly further away. "Call me Mr. Hodos. So why don't you start by telling me what you are doing." There was a flurry of colored 3-D imagines congealing into what looked like a flower bud on the monitor. As he watched, the bud grew, flowered, and germinated. Then as rapidly another design was tried.

 

As he had hoped, Trysha, like most intelligent children, was delighted to show off. "As the Herberts always remind us: 'if you can't design it, you can't build it.' I am studying an application of projective transformations, also known as W-curves, on living forms. Examples of such transformations are logarithmic spirals . . . "

 

 _Ouch!_  Trysha was almost as advanced in mathematics at age ten as Mykal had been and just about as irritating.  _Let's try again._

 

"How about slowing down a bit -- take it from a higher level." He gestured with his hand above his head. "Just what is the goal of what you are doing? It seems artistic."

 

"Aesthetic considerations are a factor, but they are not the only criterion of design," she glared. "This is my biology project. I am studying morphogenesis, specifically how form and function correlate in organisms."

 

"And what is your particular project?"

"Well, I'm not quite ready," she seemed almost shy for a moment, "but my Herbert thinks I am pretty close. I am designing my plant. Then I will build it."

 

That silenced Mykal. He kept watching the flower in its colorful generations. Finally, he asked, "What exactly do you mean: 'build a plant'?"

 

Shyness vanished, Trysha was exasperated. "Well, things must be very backward where you come from. Everybody should know how to build at least a simple plant. Sorry, I don't mean to be rude," her voice was gentler but her expression was unchanged. "Haven't you ever done anything like this?"

 

"No," said Mykal chagrined. He was reeling. How does one build a plant? Perhaps she didn't mean that literally. "But you should know that I came from Auron as well."

 

Deep sigh. "As well as what? And what is Auron?"

 

Mykal felt the ground slipping away. "Trysha, bear with me. I want to ask a few questions. They may sound stupid but please answer them as carefully as you can. For starters, what is the curriculum around here?

 

"History, language, mathematics, ethics, with the following . . ."

 

"I get the picture. So tell me some history."

 

"I know everything from the Diaspora through Vastator to the Second Federation up through the Galactic war," she said confidently.

 

"And Blake's Rebellion?"

She shook her head. "Who is Blake?"

 _Uh oh_. Mykal decided not to pursue that for the moment. He asked,

"What about before the Diaspora?"

She hesitated. "There is not much known." Then she said brightly: "I know about Project Apple, the first landing on Earth's moon, Luna."

 

"Origin of the name?"

"It comes from Sir Albert Newton, who discovered the nature of gravity while contemplating the relationship between an apple falling from a tree and the orbital trajectory of Luna. Project Apple verified that Sir Albert was correct about gravity and many other things. My Herbert says many discoveries as profound are made under trees -- all you need is the right apple," she giggled.

 

"True enough, or the right tree. But apples are sometimes in short supply. As are trees."

 

"Then you make them. We make all the trees we need," she said proudly. Then she asked again, "What is Auron?"

 

Alarm bells were going off inside Mykal. He moved his hand to the keyboard and typed on the screen: "TELESEND!".

 

Trysha asked why. Mykal typed in "PLEASE!".

 

//All right. But they don't like us to do it.//

 

SO I GATHERED. I BET IT REALLY ANNOYS PATER.

 

//Oh yes. He hates it, though we don't see him very much.//

 

 _As I suspected._  WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?

 

Trysha seemed confused and annoyed. //We come from here, of course.//

WHERE IS 'HERE'?

 

She made a sweeping gesture. //Kaarn!//

 

Suddenly Herbert reappeared behind him. #It is regretted but you must leave now. The student's lessons are such that a prolonged interruption is not acceptable.#

 

Mykal quickly cleared the screen. "Sorry. I thank you both for your time. Say Herb, you wouldn't mind if I continued to walk around here, would you?" he asked the robot, sounding apologetic.

 

Again the pause. #*As long as the children are not disturbed, there should be no problem.#

 

"I'll do my best. You know, I was thinking of walking over to that house on the spit. It looks interesting. It seems to have a very original design."

 

#That is a forbidden area,# declared the Herbert abruptly.

 

 _Oh, is it now?_  "Gee! May I ask why?"

 

Herbert paused again. Who is it communicating with? #That information is denied. Elaboration is not possible without administrator level security rights.#

 

Mykal leaned against one of the trees, his arms folded. In the spirit of Trysha's maxim, it seemed a good place and post for someone trying to reach a conclusion. Well, what to conclude? It was clear that much was being kept from the children, and himself. He and his people (how good it was to use that phrase!) deserved better.

 

Was he being overly suspicious? After all, there had been no hostile act against him. Perhaps the two adults sincerely believed that the children were too young to be told the truth. But if so -- who would decide the time of truth, who would do the telling, and would the children be permitted to question that "truth" if they were dissatisfied with it?

 

What was the answer to the mystery of the settlement? It had to be practically staring him in the face. Could the children actually make plants? From the examples he had seen, the answer clearly was "yes". If only he could examine the problem from the right angle it would all become clear . . .

 

Such were his thoughts as he was propped against the tree in the fading afternoon. He studied the tree. He could not believe it was anything but a real tree, one alive as himself. Just because it was without bark meant nothing. For example, it did have fruit. Yet the design was so odd, so many flamboyant spirals wrapped around limbs that were as round and smooth as tubes. The tree's overall appearance resembled the result of a dragon having mated with a chemical refinery.

 

Each of the main branches had several pods. It was natural for someone like Mykal to wonder if they were edible. Hunger and curiosity combined to lead to the next step. He pulled down one of the branches and snapped off a pod. Though the branch, like the tree, had a wood-like grain and feel, the skin of the pod had an odd plastic texture. He cracked it open. There was no fruit inside . . . instead there were cubes, perfect cubes, dozens of them clustered together. He removed the skin. Then with mounting fascination, he examined the cubes, forgetting that he was still holding the branch.

_Memory cubes. This tree grows memory cubes!_

 

He did not know how long he stood there when he was interrupted by a metallic voice. #Please do not attempt to eat them. They are not edible.#

 

Mykal put the cubes in his pocket and let the branch snap back, hitting him in the face. He was fully conscious now. "Of course. I was only studying them. Would you mind if I kept these?"

 

#Yes. Plenty will be grown before the next programming.#

 

Before the next programming! "Out of curiosity, what will you grow then?"

 

#There are several possibilities. Currently there are potential shortages in the following: . . .#

 

Mykal interrupted, "It hardly matters, now does it? Everything from steaks to shirts, from berries to buildings, in all the quantities you want: that's what can grow in your garden, my contrary little friend." He laughed.

 

#That is correct.#

 

_These are not trees. They are biochemical processing plants, to a level of sophistication that could barely be described. They contain all the chemical engineering knowledge of Auron, and a good deal more besides. If it can be designed, the trees, or what made the trees, can build it. That is what Trysha was saying. The "tree" structure is only quaintness, utterly unnecessary to the function. Function indifferent to Form._

Mykal faced the robot. "I'm new around here. I spoke earlier with a student who was 'building a plant'. Does she need a 'tree' to do that?"

#No, she was probably designing only the final form of the plant. After that, the seed will be created. The 'tree' as you call it is merely a convenience to make articles that are small and in high demand.#

 

"Kind of a floral factory."

 

#The metaphor/analogy is adequate.#

 

"You and your pals have been watching me, haven't you?"

 

#That is correct.#

 

Mykal crouched to it's level and put his arm around it. Well, a "plant" among the plants. "Now, who put you up to such a rude thing?"

 

#The answer cannot be given,# the Herbert stated.

 

 _But I bet we both know it_. "All right, Herbert whatever. One final question: why the 'tree' shape?"

 

There was a long pause and when the robot's voice returned, it sounded oddly different: "So we would never forget what makes our existence possible."

 

On the cliff above the shore, the twilight sky was clear as the sun set. The wind was damp and cold, but Mykal paid no notice to it. He had come to a rise overlooking the spit. And at the end of the spit, hidden in the dusk, its base submerged in the ocean, stood the house.

From this angle, the house was shaped like an enormous teardrop, a teardrop curved along the pattern of a graceful logarithmic spiral, topped by a pinnacle clear as crystal thrust into the darkening sky.

(. . . the waves lapped against the house as a swell rolled in and the water glistened in the dying light like blood from a wound . . .)

He would enter it and drag the truth out of Pater (though not right this moment -- the tide was full, and the path to the house was submerged). He was not asking for fairness. All he asked for was comprehension. Yet what questions could he ask and how would he ask them? Language was not failing, but it was struggling.  _Hi, call me Mykal. Things sure are weird around here. Mind telling me what's up._  That was as subtle an opening as he could imagine.

The trees and the buildings . . . They are the same. Only the form is different. That's what Trysha was studying. Form. Design. Pattern. What biologists called morphogenesis, the problem that had haunted Dr. Geir. Trysha would build a flower today . . . and later, what would she design and build? When any pattern imaginable, which makes physical sense, can be imposed on matter . . .

 

The house is a single organic structure. It is a metaphor of the power of life over matter. The house, Mykal decided, would have disturbed Dr. Geir, but he might have liked it.

 

There was a single light on in the house; Mykal admired the gothic touch. He was certain that the owner knew he was there, but wanted him to wait a while longer. Meteors streaked overhead. Mykal shivered again, waved at the house, and then headed back to the infirmary.

It was nearly an hour before he returned. Li's door was shut. She would be asleep and there was no point in waking her. He knew he would be incoherent, all guesses and possibilities and nothing resembling a proof. Except . . . and he clutched the memory cubes in his pocket.

 

He went to his room and put the cluster of memory cubes in a drawer.

He suddenly remembered that his recorder was in the lifecraft but decided against going back to retrieve it. He would not need it this time.

(Later, he would be grateful that he did not record the conversation with Pater.)

 

He was tired but he could not sleep. He struggled, turning violent in the bed; he fought blathering fears and mad rages to dark exhaustion until at last, after hours of pounding and tossing, he entered a state where a deep dream came of:

Storm clouds tearing through orange sky and he was . . .

Standing before an ocean, welling up in waves white and furious . . .

When there was a rip in the sky, a dagger of sunlight piercing through . . .

And he heard himself saying as the storm died: "Forgive me this day for what I have done."

When he awoke, he heard "Li" (he was resigning himself to the name) in the kitchen. A few minutes later, he joined her, but neither said anything. It was one of those moments when two people have so much to say to each other, but neither knows where to begin, and both fear where it will end. He was moving beyond despair. Whatever happened today and whatever he would learn, he would do it alone. And truth would be his compensation for the irretrievable loss of love.

Upon completion of his breakfast, he said, "I will be gone for most of the day. Tonight, I want to talk."

 

She did not look at him. "Of course."

 

"I don't have a lot of time. May I be direct?"

 

She smiled at him for the first time. "You can be rather good at it."

"Is there someone else?"

(//You might say so.//) "No."

 

"Jenna has been hinting that something happened to you. I want to know first if there is a physical barrier between us, like" he hesitated, "the age difference."

(//Tell him yes. He's not my type.// //Cally!//)

 

It sounded stupid even as he said it, but she looked at him with sympathy. "It's nothing physical, Mykal. It's more," she smiled wistfully, "metaphysical."

 

He straightened. "Then is what Jenna said correct? Is Cally with you?"

She nodded slowly. "Try to understand, Mykal. I don't quite have control of my life," she said.

(//When did you ever!// //Cally . . .// //Yes?// //Show some consideration: get lost.// //Suit yourself. Bye(!)//)

"You are also Molli, aren't you?"

 

"Partly. At least at the moment."

 

He studied her, his desperate need to know overcoming his reserve.

"Jenna said it was something strange. I guess she was right. I hope you will tell me everything. I doubt I can help, but I don't want to be shut out." He summoned all his courage and said, "I care very much for Molli. I don't want to lose her without knowing why."

She acknowledged the strength it required for him to say that, but her answer was maddeningly ambiguous: "You won't."

 

Both faced each other, drawing closer. "You know my feelings. This,"

he looked directly into her eyes, "complicates matters, but what I feel will not change." He took her hand and kissed it.

 

"Oh my," she whispered, as embarrassed as she was touched.

 

"Good-bye, Molli."

 

"We will talk later," she said, sounding more confident then she felt, more unhappy than she realized.

 

And with that Mykal Hodos strode out the door to the awakening settlement, past the rustling of the odd trees and the sights and smells of the strange flowers, to the shore and the house where the dawn and truth awaited.

 

Honorable Men

 

"I see you have come for answers -- what in common parlance is called the truth. Be warned. People always demand honesty full and complete --

until it is given them. Then they feel betrayed and bring the whole machinery of manners in protest of the insult to their honor. I do hope you shall spare me such immaturity."

 

In his enormous chair, Pater slouched before Mykal. He had been listening the past hour as Mykal related his life story: Auron, his family, Dr. Geir, Servalan, Jenna, Molli, and Avon. As he listened, Mykal's voice echoing in the cavern that was the house's central chamber, Pater would glance up from time to time to the dark recesses of the distant spiraling ceiling where but a single small skylight resided. He would do as as if reaching for divine guidance. Indeed, had the ceiling been well lit, as Mykal had hoped it to be, it might have given such a feeling of inspiration. But the murky opaqueness Mykal found above him suggested an unending dreariness confined under an oversized dunce cap; a place that might have been put to better use as a home for desolate bats.

 

Mykal replied, "I think I am up to it."

 

Pater was visibly relishing his role as all-knowing master of wisdom before his ignorant and possibly innocent pupil. His manner was confident, but in a strident way: there was no doubt in his mind that he was about to pleasure his guest with a fascinating story which anyone would consider themselves honored to hear. Yet his eyes were remote, tired circles in haunted flesh, suggesting a much older man overcome by despair at the fate of humanity -- or one who had overindulged on drugs. His limbs were spindly and his unkempt beard seemed to have no other purpose than to suggest that someone who covered his face with hair had to be wiser than someone who didn't. The total effect was that of being in the presence of a hairy, malnourished, and overly large spider. Mykal had spent years in academia. He knew the type well. He resigned himself to the worst.

Mykal began his questioning. "Nice place. But the location," he gestured to the ocean, "isn't it a bit dangerous? Completely exposed; half in the water. . ." The land bridge to the house was broken and ragged with rocks; barely passable even during low tide.

But before replying, Pater had a question of his own. "Do you like the design?"

"Yes."  _It's different, I'll give it that._

"I modeled it after the common seashell. I find the spiral pattern, the gyre, to be endlessly fascinating. That simple curve which is so fundamental to life is the perfect symbol of what I have discovered. This house is intended as a tribute to that discovery, to Nature itself. The spiral design also made programming particularly easy. But I sense you are concerned about storms, wave damage, corrosion and such?"

 

"Yes."  _No, why would anyone think that?_

 

"The materials of this house are as strong as they can possibly be; a good fifty times stronger than anything in your experience. The house -- you noticed the outer buttresses I am sure -- is solidly anchored into hundreds of meters of rock. Like all the buildings in the settlement, it can also repair itself should any damage occur. I could destroy it, but Nature would have a very difficult time harming the house."

 

"Then how was it built?"

 

Pater's eyes flashed. "That requires the explanation you are seeking.

So let me, as yourself, begin with some background. Unlike Clinician Franton, I was an outsider to what was called the 'Foresight Project'. I was but a mere lead traffic controller doing system testing who just happened to be in the right place when I was caught in the whirlwind that destroyed Auron. Nevertheless, I assure you that what I am about to tell you is accurate. It has been confirmed many times in my talks with Franton and my own experiences with the technology. It is my hope that you will understand how I came to the momentous realizations that I did. Perhaps even to come to agree with me."

 

He almost seemed to wink. "I do regret the unfortunate atmosphere of our introduction. But I have learned over the years to be cautious; to expect the worst of humanity and not to be disappointed."

 

"A sound policy," Mykal had to agree. "But I am an Auron."

 

"Yes, I am aware of that," he said gravely, "and it is in your favor. But you may have been corrupted . . ."

Mykal frowned.

Pater went on. "To begin. We Auronar have always been fascinated by the mechanisms of life. After Vastator, when we turned inward to understand how evolution had crafted us and to where it was leading, understanding the 'how' of life became our first obsession.

 

"It was not a popular nor easy quest, as you are well aware, but the Auronar never abandoned it despite centuries of frequently violent opposition. And over those centuries," he took in a long breath, "on balance, our achievements, social and scientific, would appear to have justified our determination. Consider our accomplishments: the eradication of illness and genetic defects, the creation of a race of telepaths -- a remarkable achievement, though its value continues to elude me -- and individuals with other advanced mental powers (Mykal suppressed a groan). Finally, our world at peace. Yet few realized how fragile our triumph was, how deep were our delusions.

 

"The Project that culminated in this settlement began with the collapse of the massive decades long research project into morphogenis. When the overwhelming majority of scientists abandoned it for the so-called 'Time Project', a few highly capable engineers and bio-technicians remained, determined to carry on from the original effort what they felt was still valuable.

"Their starting point was a simple observation made centuries before: in their researches into DNA and its properties, it was noted that DNA is not only interesting scientifically for its coding, its programming if you will, but it is also valuable in an material engineering sense -- as 'stuff' to build structures. A computer scientist might have put it this way: in the twin intersecting gyres of DNA resides a software aspect and a hardware aspect. To understanding this amazing substance -- a substance integral to all life; that can self-replicate and control the organism's growth and form; which would ultimately serve as a model for the technology that made the settlement possible -- both these aspects must be kept firmly in mind.

 

"From that realization a new research program began. Its goal was the understanding and re-engineering of DNA itself. It was to achieve total control over the machinery of life: RNA, the enzymes, ribosomes, and so forth. But even that lofty aim was insufficient to some of the scientists and technicians of this project."

"The name again?" Mykal dared to interrupt.

''As I said, only an informal one: Foresight," but Mykal could not place it. "To continue. The few -- it is always a few, isn't it? -- wondered if there might be a way to move beyond DNA's fragile protein machinery to create non-protein machines, and thus give us the power to create fantastic new materials in virtually unlimited quantities. Suffice it to say," he smiled, "it is indeed possible.

"Does the idea sound unnerving? If you agree, you might suppose there would have been opposition. So there was, but not nearly as much as one might have expected. The opposition was, in fact, always focused on one particularly goal or another, never the whole. This is crucial to understanding what happened. To grasp the implications of 'Foresight' would have required levels of interest and knowledge utterly beyond the vast majority. Aurons are all too 'human' in that respect. The main opposition, in fact, was from rival academics who felt it might impact the credibility of their researches. Given such a narrow perspective, opposition came to be viewed as merely another funding game. It was politics, always politics.

 

"Understandably, the public, ignorant and indifferent as it was, paid little attention to the 'debate', if one wishes to dignify the occasionally acrimonious discussion with such a term. Yet the implications for once were as real as they were fantastic. One regrets so few took them seriously.

 

"I should point out that the starting point -- the notion of taking existing molecular machinery and modifying it in both structure and programming -- was sound, but it was terribly tedious. Whatever DNA and its attendant machinery are -- and ignore the wearisome complex terminology, just concentrate on the functional essences -- the system is adapted extremely well by Nature to what it does. By dealing with such a well-adapted system, a unfortunately long detour had been taken. Yet, it ultimately did succeed. This settlement is proof.

 

"What was finally achieved was the ability to manipulate matter at the molecular level, that is, true molecular engineering -- hence the name: 'nanotechnology'. The term is logical, if unappealing, as the grabbing, pushing, and joining of atoms takes place at the scale of billionths of a meter, the so-called 'nano' scale.

"The results that the public saw could be termed 'Phase I Nanotechnology' -- the ability to make very small computers and molecular machines, but things no more complex than are normally made on the macroscopic level. Crude as these devices were, however, they pointed to something far beyond themselves: 'Phase II Nanotechnology' -- the ability to effortlessly design the structure, the patterns of matter. In other words, Phase I combined with very powerful design capabilities controlled by advanced machine intelligences, independent or linked directly to the mind. This is an explosive combination.

 

"One thing I should mention about nanotechnology is the possibility the ancients had it. The evidence I submit are certain medical artifacts rumored to date just prior to the great divide of our being -- Vastator. No one has actually seen let alone touched such a device but the extant records are persuasive. No satisfactory explanation has ever been made as to how these artifacts and materials could have been fabricated. I believe they were created by nanotechnology. If so, what I am telling you might shed enormous light on what happened to them.

 

"But I digress. It became clear that Phase I could slip into Phase II

very quickly. So the debate began again, but even more highly restricted as to the participants. When would the 'slip' come, what would it be like, what should be done? Nobody had the slightest idea. A pilot to 'explore' these questions was therefore initiated. Security tightened enormously. No systematic spread of information reached the populace. Oh, someinformation did leak out, such is unavoidable, but it all sounded too fantastic. No one believed it."

 

Pater suddenly became angry. "They would still be dawdling there, but events forced their hand. The continued and surprising success of Blake's Rebellion, and the fact that one of the Auronar was part of it, meant that eventually the galactic conflict would come to our home world.

"Please understand: any world, any individual, in the possession of Phase II nanotechnology can only be defeated, if they can be defeated at all, by an equivalent technology. If you grasp just that one point, you grasp all that is necessary.

 

"Under pressure of the threat of war, work on the prototype was accelerated." He paused. "With a little more time, Auron might have been saved. I can say that flatly. In fact, Auron would rule the galaxy now. But saving Auron would have involved placing what was termed an 'active shield' of nano-machines into the planet's biosphere to guard against biological and similar 'nano' invaders. Personally, I find the concept of an 'active shield' repulsive, but that is not the point. The point is that every idea proposed but one was rejected out of hand as politically unfeasible.

 

"That idea, the new focus of Foresight under Clinician Franton was this:

given the threat of war, suppose we had to 'preserve' Auron? What would we need to enable our people and our culture to survive on another planet? With nanotechnology the answer was stunning in its conciseness: one box of 'gene stock' and one box of nano-machines and memory cubes. These were the seeds to grow anything needed on a new world -- all that was required was water and carbon and some trace elements. Nanotechnology cannot create elements, of course. It has nothing to do with nuclear technology.

 

"Final testing was underway when the Federation attack came. You know the rest. What Avon and his crew transported to Kaarn, without their having the slightest knowledge, was the most potent technology ever created. Perhaps the last."

 

Pater took a breath as a wave crashed outside. "This settlement, this house, are only an illustration of the power of Phase II nanotechnology.

Using only the most common of elements, the simplest of materials -- there is no pollution here, all waste is completely reused as raw material -- using only the power of the mind and a single seed planted on a dry rock on a sunny day is all it took. I could have built billions of houses with hardly any more effort, well, we have achieved a utopia of plenty. But utopia was not the reason for the settlement: it was survival. Despite our many disagreements, I give Franton this: it was because of her determination that the children of Auron survived for whatever destiny awaits them."

 

 _So why does he hate her so?_  Mykal saw the opening. "But they do not even know they are Auronar."

 

"They will be told their history at the appropriate time."

 

"Will you tell them all the factors that made their survival possible?"

 

Pater scowled. "It is not so simple. The value of Franton, as the value of everyone in this galaxy, as is the value of truth, is now an open question. It became so as a result of the crime again Auron. I believe that I and the children were chosen to survive, but that is a conclusion not lightly reached. There is a serious question of ethics which I had to resolve before accepting the answer. Only after years of effort did the answer finally come."

 

Mykal tensed. No word had a greater potential for misuse these days than "ethics". The word invariably signaled that something fast was about to be pulled. "I guess I don't understand," he said cautiously.

 

Pater laughed coarsely. "Someone as intelligent as yourself? I seriously doubt that. Mykal!" he leaned forward, "of course you will resist what I am telling you. Most would. The question I answered when I understood the full power of nanotechnology is at the core of ethics: not the 'why', the purpose or destiny of intelligent life, but the value.  _What is its value?_ "

He leaned back and waited.

"Continue," prompted Mykal.

 

"With Phase II nanotechnology, there is no limit to what I or anyone can accomplish. Believe me, for once that boast has an exact meaning, yet one which is almost impossible to believe unless you can see what this technology can do: complete control of the mind over the structure of the mental, the material, the patterns of life for whatever our will desires. This settlement could easily have been extended over the entire planet. Or, had someone been so inclined, the power we now possess could have destroyed this planet, its sun, the galaxy itself.

"Franton shrinks from that realization. She is hopeful that humans and Aurons together will rise to meet the challenge, though she cannot say how, and after our many clashes over the years refuses now even to discuss the matter. I do not share her hopes. Neither will I permit her to stand in the way."

 

Mykal asked, "Then what is your discovery?" He suspected strongly that in the history of ethics, Pater's revelations were old news.

 

"We have come to the crossroads, the most profound in our history," he thundered. "This technology cannot be suppressed. The usual means of control, upon which the whole of our civilization is built, are utterly inadequate. The potential of nanotechnology is so vast, we must rethink our place as living beings.  _We must reconsider our reverence of intelligence._  To survive in the new order, if we are deemed worthy to survive, we must accept our obligations to Nature or perish in our failure."

Pater leaned forward. "Intelligent life, even after moving into the galaxy, has always been utterly dependent upon the ecosphere, wherever we were lucky enough to find one to support us. It functions superbly without us; we die very quickly without it. Yet since the beginning of civilization, humans and later Aurons turned their backs on Nature. We have become alienated from that which supports us and ever more threatening to it. Now I am telling you as I will tell everyone: rethink your place."

He waited. Mykal replied coolly, "Aren't there other ways of looking at this? I mean, in the spirit of the great Edward and his thinking tools, a child is totally dependent upon its parents for all its early life, yet who would argue that the child's life can be dispensed with at their whim? We were dependent upon plants and animals, though you must realize this technology makes that no longer true, but they are in turn dependent upon the material substrate. If we push your principle, don't we find ourselves perilously close to advocating 'rock rights'? I respect nature, but see no reason to grovel before it. I would not hesitate to cut down a tree for firewood to keep from freezing. I fail to see how it could be argued it would be better I did nothing and died. Is the only value of life to be found in enriching the soil? Ethics only makes sense in a context in which knowledge and choice are possible. Nature is not a choosing entity."

 

Pater shook his head. "Pathetic, Mykal. So pathetic. We must acknowledge the superiority of the ecosphere! It is the only way! This technology," he made a sweeping gesture, "forces us to that conclusion. No argument can withstand it. All that was our nurturer and noble heritage, we must and will submit to -- if we are to survive. Once that is realized, further discussion is pointless. The answer to the question of our proper place is then revealed."

Mykal was depressed. It was as if he had wandered into a cave to confront an enormous dragon, only to discover the cave empty except for a frightened cat. He replied, "I am willing to concede that this 'nanotechnology' considerably heightens the moral dilemmas we face -- we always face -- but it does not resolve them in one blow as you imply. You have used it beneficially. Why cannot others?"

"Because I know! I understand!

"You mean you have the correct attitude. Is that it?"

"No, Mykal. That is not it. Listen, if I could destroy this technology . . .," he stopped, shaking his head. "Though if that option ever existed, it is gone now -- I believe it makes cowards of us all." His voice had warmth for the first time, "Together we can control it, however."

Mykal was shocked. "What exactly do you mean?"

 

Pater rose and exulted in triumph. "I intend to act in defense of the only value of existence -- to save the ecospheres that have supported us for so long and which we now threaten with extinction. I am seeking followers in my quest to restore the supremacy of what gave us life!"

 

Mykal muttered, "You aim to enslave all intelligent life to save it."

 

"Why, destroy it, if it comes to that." Pater looked out to the sea.

"Together, with nanotechnology, the children of Auron will force humanity to leave Nature, and each other, in peace. Hear me: humanity has lost it's claim to continue. That species has become stained by its crimes; it's loss would no longer be a special loss. However, there are options." He shrugged, "We could quarantine them; ensure that they are no danger to anyone or anything, or . . ."

Mykal rose angrily. "And of those humans who had nothing to do with that crime? Or those who fought to prevent it? They too can never have the stain removed? With one brushstroke you damn an entire species! In the name of what logic? And what of the concepts of good, of freedom, of independence, of rights? What is left after your 'ethics' is done with them?"

 

Pater looked amused. "I am being more generous than you concede. That species, and their supposed rights that you wave about like a banner, has not merely 'lost it's value' -- it never had any! What supports their lives is the highest and only value! All else is shadow. Others have stated the theorem, but I have completed the proof. Let the humans wail. They will quickly discover how weak they are. Mykal, left to their own devices they will commit suicide regardless. This new war makes that certain. We are heading for the third and final Vespera and nothing can stop it. But you and I still have time to preserve what is good."

 

"Look," Mykal said wearily, "you are way out of touch with more than galactic history. None of this stuff is new. You're just another advocate of murder as a reasoned alternative to suicide. I will not have any part of this, you . . ." Mykal was getting warmed up, but he stopped, remembering Jenna's console.

 

"Do not revile the truth! I am not a murderer! Punishment will be administered only when necessary. Besides," he was becoming increasingly agitated, "it is possible to use the nano-machines to observe everything, powers of surveillance beyond your wildest imaginings. We could use the machines to reprogram those who resist or who cannot or will not understand. Yes!" He turned violently from the window. "Let us not burden our discussion with details. Nanotechnology can solve any problem we face."

"Any problem?" Mykal yelled. "How can you be so sure of that? What if one of your followers errors, let alone disagrees? What if the secret leaks out, which it will. Can you watch everyone at all times? If nanotechnology caused Vastator, nothing you have said demonstrates the result of implementing your ideas would be any different."

 

Pater said with solemnity, "We have come to the end of history. This time there will be no failure. I will ensure that." He drew closer, hysteria on his face. "I know what I would do. Sterilize them, reduce their precious intelligence, change their form, make them root like pigs for millennia -- with just enough awareness of their state to know why they are in it. Man has always been a dirty animal; such a fate would be most fitting. He will learn his place!"

 

There was a chilling silence. "I think I had better go."

 

"Mykal," moaned Pater, "You are just like Franton. You keep miring the discussion in detail, trivial, stupid detail! Stop being a good little Auree." Mykal looked at him sharply. "Nature cannot, will not, be defeated. By living you affirm that truth. I simply carry it to the final step!" He stepped directly in front of Mykal, fists clinched, as if he were about to assault him. "If you accept the essentials of my argument, we can work out your damn details."

 

Mykal was calm now, surprising himself. He said, "God is in the details. That is what Dr. Geir taught me. Sorry, I lack your confidence." Mykal looked around. "This house . . . when the children are grown, will they be permitted to have houses like these? Wherever they want them?"

 

Pater was furious. "Never! That would be ecologically unsound! The ecosphere is far too fragile. It would be absolutely forbidden!"

"But that prohibition would not apply to you. Why? By your own statements, nanotechnology can completely eliminate any pollution. So what is the problem? Or are some people's waste products more benign than others?"

 

"People are the pollution!"

 

Mykal shook his head. "That's what I mean. So what makes you so special?"

 

"I understand! They don't!" he stamped out the words.

 

"We're back to attitude. Teach them; persuade them."

 

"They won't listen!"

 

"That's your problem." Mykal risked jabbing a finger at him. "Which is why you haven't the courage to tell the children their history. That history might make it harder to mold them, wouldn't it? Do you suspect even a ten-year-old wouldn't accept your terms, if you won't? That no one will follow your logic because you can't?"

 

"You are deliberately misinterpreting what I am saying!"

 

Mykal looked over to the vast window, spray flecked against it, the light broken into rainbow patterns. He swallowed. "No, I am not. I am more in sympathy with parts of what you say than you realize. Many would be. Given the history of humanity there is little to inspire optimism. It is truly frightening, the dangers of nanotechnology. And we 'Aurees' remain human enough to want revenge. But I will not yield to nonsense. And nonsense becomes no nobler by sanctioning unspeakable cruelty. No matter how legitimate the intent, how justifiable the hatred you feel, as sentient beings we owe each other respect for our sentience -- the foundation of our existence and ethics. Whatever the crimes of  _some_  humans, humanity cannot be deprived of its value. That is the eternal honor that belongs to us all."

 

Mykal pointed angrily in the direction of the settlement. "They have a right to be left alone, they have a right to know the truth. A right equally shared by every Auron and human. Let me give you some advice: act quickly. Because if you don't, you will discover what Servalan is discovering: a policy of force is doomed to failure. Someone will wrest this power from you. Someone who lacks your interest in philosophical niceties. Your discovery amounts to this: give you unlimited power and you will let us know if we are worthy of your rule. The names and professed benefactors may change, but the essence is the same. Pater, for god's sake, it's wrong."

 

"Of course, no system designed for man can work," Pater said, hurriedly. "Don't you see? We can do what Servalan could never do."

 

"With luck we'll never know," Mykal turned to leave then stopped. "But I am grateful you admit that your ideas require a Servalan to enforce them. But isn't one enough? Yes, I have met her, and sorry, you're no Servalan."

 

"How boring is your blaspheming! You only prove to me the degree to which intelligence is a destructive force," Pater snapped. "As if I didn't already know. Join me, or face the consequences with the rest of them."

He pressed closer: "I have seen the horror of war in all its fullness. You know nothing of it."

 

"I think I might be starting to catch on. And I am prepared to face the consequences. They are better than anything you have to offer."

Mykal stepped back to the main entrance as it automatically dilated before him. Pater glared at him; then Pater said, his voice ominous, "I had such hope for you, Mykal. The principles are right. They conclusions follow. They cannot be denied. If you cannot see that, you are doomed. You say you are concerned about details, but you labor trivialities."

 

"It would concern you -- if the gun were in my hand."

 

"But you're an Auron," Pater smiled. "That's hardly likely."

 

The words could barely get past. "Don't count on it."

 

"What a tiresome little man you are. As hopeless as Cally!"

 

"I take that as a complement."

 

Pater sighed, "My struggle would have been much easier with you. You have a way with children. I can see that. They like you. They trust you."

 

"They can't get enough of me," Mykal agreed.

 

"They will need guidance. Think about it."

 

"I have. I think the children can do better than either of us." He turned to leave.

"Like from that murderer, your hero, Avon?" Pater sneered after him.

He knew, as all who have intellectual pretensions do, that there is no refuting a sneer. "There's a shining example of what humanity has to offer."

 

"You know," Mykal said, "I cannot say I'm overly fond of him myself. But he did save my life and he saved yours as well. Is that why you hate him so?"

 

"My life is no concern of his."

 

"But is it of concern to you?"

 

"When I consider the nature of man, the brutality of his history, the violence of his existence, the answer is 'No'." His mouth formed a large "O".

 

"That's where we disagree. Dr. Geir said life always matters; that it was the key to all of existence, at all levels. He thought death was the pointless waste, not life. He was certain there was a better way; that the mind would render death irrelevant. I think I'll stick with him."

 

"Your Dr. Geir sounds like a very foolish man, but then you appear to have a habit of sticking with such. Do not evade the subject. Avon is a killer, nothing more. Content to take any side of an issue, fighting the Federation one day, serving it the next." Suddenly, Pater had an inspiration. "What do you think happened to your teacher?"

 

"For what it's worth, murdered by the Federation."

 

He chuckled. "What a surprise. Tell me, did your hero care?"

 

"Why, yes he did," said Mykal. "As I said, I was there. I saw him. I know he cared."

But Pater was unconvinced. He was true to the logic of his feelings. Now that his philosophy had drained intelligence, consciousness and thought of all meaning and morality, Avon's action was of no more consequence than a decision to pitch one rock rather than another into a barren sea. Hating humanity was wasteful, might even be futile. Controlling it was all that mattered. "I regret no agreement is possible between us. You have made your choice, with Avon and the others of his ilk. I will now make mine."

 

"Do we have any say in this?"

 

"Since none of you will submit to the truth, it is clear that whatever you say is of no consequence."

 

"I could make a similar reply."

 

"Humanity is a disease on Nature and all that lives in harmony with it! All animal life is parasitic and intelligent life most of all. Humanity has fought that truth. It is the Auron destiny to make them bow before it!"

 

"It would be the Auron comedy to take such nonsense seriously."

 

Pater shook his head. "You have a lot to learn."

 

"I think I have learned enough. Your house," he made a sweeping gesture mirroring Pater, "this settlement. Were they gifts of nature? You advocate an ethical principle that would have made it impossible for our ancestors to have ever left the caves. You talk of submitting to nature, but the only practical consequence is submission to you."

"Because it is true. And as a man of honor in service to that truth, I

am prepared to die for my beliefs."

"But the problem for the rest of us is to live with them. And your honor is no help there."

 

Pater turned red. "That is indeed your problem."

 

"You can't kill them all!" Mykal cried.

 

"With this technology," he roared, "I can! I can do anything! They will all be in my power. Their lives will be exposed as empty, shallow, meaningless -- except to the extend they can persuade me to be merciful!"

 

Mykal looked down, his rage becoming anguish. He remembered Avon, standing in the tunnel, while the smoke swirled around him and his terrifying smile of hideous pain as death flowed . . .

He lifted his head, "With all your talk of life, Pater, all your appeals to science and truth, it never seems to have occurred to you that your whole approach to the problem may be wrong. The Auron scientists asked the 'how' of life; you and many others have asked the 'why'. But it's funny, you never asked the most basic question, the question that Dr. Geir always asked."

Pater tensed. "What question was that?"

"You forgot to ask: 'what  _is_  life?'"

And with that Mykal turned and left the house as the doorway sealed behind him.

The Sword of Auron

There is nothing like a war to focus one's attention on the truly vital things in life, thought Jenna, as she contemplated the two tasks facing her. The first was to find out where Servalan's massive fleet was heading. That was easy. The reports that darted among the stars, though cryptic and evasive, were as frantically clear as a shouted warning in the night. Given the strength of the resistance and the number of brushfire rebellions that had broken out, the Federation was hardly averse to advertising its strength. The size of the Combined Fleet was itself a threat: it was larger than anything assembled since the Galactic war. There was no need at present for Servalan to break off from her prime mission and engage in fly-swatting. The Combined Fleet would be used for grander purposes. Kaarn was directly in its path.

But there were only the barest of possibilities to guide Jenna in pursuit of her second task: find Avon. Naturally, she told herself, she was merely trying to avoid ever being in the same sector again with the man. The fact of the matter was, however, that since Servalan was hunting him, Jenna had to find him first. The more she kept her enemies separate, the better her (Servalan's) chances for survival.

 

First, he had to be on a planet inhabited by humanity (the entity that directed us here would have ensured that). Second, Avon was not going to broadcast his whereabouts. But what if, and it was a large if, he or someone wanted her to find him? The task might be easier than it appeared. How would his location be announced? Well, she had a scanner, and she was a proficient programmer. The only additional tool needed was her knowledge of her enemies' minds.

 

(From time to time, she wondered how Mykal and "Li" were doing, though she was determined to leave them on their own. They could do nothing for her now, nor she for them.)

She had to think and thinking is a very lonely action -- and because the target of her thinking was Avon, an angry one. The realization of that continuing link hammered at her. She was still bound to him. Their fates were still drawn painfully together as if in some irresistible gravitational field. Anger obscured her vision. Pain dragged her down. She thrust anger and pain aside.

_We will not be free until the Plan, whatever it is, has been fulfilled._

 

She despised such language. There were few quicker ways to lose one's head than by ruminating about what destiny one had been chosen to fulfill, to view oneself as an instrument of some cosmic chess game. It was a one-way ticket to madness. But she was beginning to sense that her say in the matter might be minimal. If that were the case, then soon she, Avon, and Servalan would be together again. It was not her task to prevent the inevitable. It was only to better the odds.

 

Well, if Avon were in this arm of the galaxy, the list of candidate planetary systems would be short. This far from the Center there were probably only about 100,000 sol-type systems, the vast majority uninhabited. Given that Servalan's fleet was sweeping in the direction of Kaarn, and from Kaarn it was only a few hundred lightyears to Lindor . . .

 

She did not know Lindor, only its leader, Sarkoff. He had figured in an episode of Jenna's life she remembered only too well. It had been brief and bitter (weren't they all?); Avon, as usual, had been of little help. Be that as it may, she and Avon had this in common: neither could stand being in the same room with President Sarkoff (and his daughter was worse). But Blake had seen promise in the man (so had Cally!) and while nothing had come of it as with so many of Blake's chosen, Lindor had become over the years a thorn not easily removed from the side of the Federation. With war looming, that could change. So Jenna listened closely to Lindor.

What would the message be? What would leap out to her but not give alarm to everyone else in the galaxy? The problem delighted her mind while sinking her heart. She worked, ferociously determined not to yield to despair. She barely slept, recording and analyzing the transmissions and thinking all the time:  _Please don't let it be Lindor_.

 

Whatever the message was, it was certain to be repeated. Many times. And, Lindor was in the midst of an election campaign. That surely would be a source of tiresome repetition.

 

Let us now state that her hunches and heuristics did pay off. On the evening of the second day, she discovered the message. It was addressed to her: Avon was on Lindor and someone -- not necessarily Avon, wanted her there!

 

So with the Combined Fleet drawing closer, the time for fighting was not yet, but the time for running was definitely at hand. Now her troubles spun out of control. How to get off Kaarn? What to do with the Aurons?

She needed miracles and all that was being handed her was a summons.

 

(It was only the memory of the man whom she had followed so many years before that told her that regardless of the dearth of miracles, the responsibility accepted must not be evaded.)

 

And so she sat there looking for all the galaxy like she was posing for an image of defeat, all bronze and bird droppings in the middle of some run-down park. In the dim light of the lifecraft, Jenna Stannis was waiting for a troop of angels to come pounding on the door.

 

The trees stood over him like plumed sentinels in the twilight. For the first time since he had seen them, Mykal entertained the thought that in their beauty and power could reside a very nasty threat. He had to face the fear openly. It was the only way to prevent it from subverting his thinking. The trees were merely symbols, he told himself. What engendered them was the true danger: the most powerful agent of destruction ever given humanity. But it was also, potentially, an engine of creation. That was the dilemma. A child could use the power safely. He had seen that. But if the will had no moral guidance, had been denied even the understanding of such a strange concept; if that will was confused or indifferent to the knowledge of good and evil, it was certain that a torrent of destruction the equal of Vastator would be unleashed. The will of one lunatic -- and that was the point Mykal was desperate in his understanding to escape -- might be sufficient to bring the bloody curtain down on the whole of civilization.

 

In Pater, Mykal's abstract dilemma of thought had become palpable reality. There was a mind in the balance between horror at what he could do and the madness to do it. To which side would the balance tilt?

Pater, Mykal realized, was everything he feared and hated.

It was time to act. Since the destruction of Auron, Mykal had longed for a sword to hurl back at the universe that had taken from him everything he had loved. All he would need were allies. There was only one obstacle remaining before him, the one that had dogged him all his life. Understanding and communicating are widely different abilities. Between the first and the second was a grand gulf. He must bridge it. He must find a way to communicate the understanding that had been given him. Only when Jenna and Li understood, would they . . .

 

It was very late when he reached the infirmary. He had been walking furiously, but his route had been a wandering one. He was tired, but he would not sleep this night.

He thought of O'Kir, Geir, Molli, so many others. But his determination went down without a bubble. Then he thought of Avon . . . and he swore at himself and stormed inside like a man demanding justice.

 

Step one: awaken "Li".

 

Step two: Franton? No. She hadn't lied, but she sure had been stingy with the truth. Franton should have made an effort to tell them right from the beginning. No, step two would be Jenna.

 

He retrieved the cubes, shoving them in his pocket. Then he shook Li awake. Startled and angry at first, she saw at once as the light came on that this was the long suppressed Mykal capable of deadly seriousness. The

"Cally" part of her was alert at once; Molli quickly followed. Li started to speak. He put his finger to his head. //What's wrong?//

 

He pointed to her clothes and gestured to the outside. Now! he seemed to say. She nodded quickly.

 

Outside the building he pointed in the direction of the lifecraft and broke into a run, Li following close behind. //Mykal what has happened!?

Tell me!//

 

He would! But at the moment only wild whispers in black air, gasps of silver breath that stung like a whip crack came out. He was not in shape for this. "We are in real trouble. The trees . . ." he stopped running.

 

"The trees," he repeated as she caught up. //Yes, Mykal// he heard the telesend (Molli?) faintly, //What about the trees?//

 

He was breathing deep, his hands on his knees. He shook his head and began running again. "I'll tell you with Jenna."

He expected resistance and disbelief, but neither happened. For once he had been able to convey complete emotional urgency, openness, and perhaps even caring, to the degree he had always wanted to. Something had gotten through to her (them?). The thought almost made him happy. As communication, it was crude, but it made for a fine start.

 

He led her south of the settlement, then turned to the direction of the lifecraft. Li kept up with him, but suddenly stopped him with a touch. She was not sure if he were lost or trying to be circumspect. She took his hand and there was a voice like a humming wire inside him. //Mykal, this is Molli. We/I are/am with you. Have faith in me/us . . . and yourself.//

 

He was grateful to her but could not acknowledge it. "Later," he said, and they began walking quickly -- careful not to trip in the dark -- to the lifecraft, lit faintly in the distance.

 

 

Seldom had there been a more obvious course of action to follow. Get off Kaarn and head anywhere -- except Lindor. Lindor's recalling its entire diplomatic corps, discontinuing it's trade, were more than acts of protest. They were rallying cries for insurrection, as Servalan would certainly judge them. Lindor was where the Combined Fleet was certain to converge after it sacked Kaarn. Thus, it would be suicide for Jenna to be anywhere near that conflagration. It was time to again plunge into the big deep.

 

But the Aurons ( _Blake, leave me be._ ) closed that option. And the message made matters worse.

 

Why had the message been sent to her? Could Avon have approved it?

Forget Avon! Whatever the answer, they were helpless without a ship.

She hit the wall of the lifecraft with her fist, and the interior lights flickered in laughter. It was enough to make one weep.

 

So it was in that mood when Li and Mykal pounded on the hatch and burst inside to the startled Jenna. Like Li, she was silenced upon seeing Mykal's face.  _He's found something. No denying that. Whatever it is, it can't make matters worse._   _Can it?_  It was good to see the two of them together, looking for all the universe like a pair of true fighters. They will need each other, she thought.

 

Mykal spoke quickly. "There is something extraordinary about the settlement. But you have to be willing to listen to the whole story. What I am going to tell you will not make any sense otherwise." He stopped, as both found a place to sit. "I have had a long talk with Pater," he said.

 

"Go on," said Jenna, calmly, putting on just the right aspect of coldness. It was not hard to do. She simply thought of Avon.

 

"I want to explain this in a way that won't sound melodramatic," he swallowed, still having trouble breathing. "Believe me, it won't be easy. This is important. Try not to ask questions until I finish, until you take it all in. There is some good news," he said, and for the first time smiled. "What created this settlement will enable us to beat the Federation with little effort."

 

Mykal took the cubes out of his pocket, snapped off two "bunches" from their "vine", and gave one to each woman.

 

"And the bad news?" Jenna asked, taking the vine, far from ready to believe Mykal's statement.

So he told them. He began with his exploration of the settlement, then the conversation with Trysha, the Herberts, the discovery of the nature of the "trees", and the encounter with Pater. They listened until Mykal completed his story, the stillness continuing for some time after he finished.

Finally, Li said, "Could he be monitoring what we say here?"

 

Mykal nodded. "Yes, but there is no point in being obsessive about what he is capable of. That is one of the facts I have been struggling with. There are so many horrendous possibilities, you lose control of your thinking. Try to ignore what Pater can do."

 

Jenna, impressed, nodded in agreement.

 

Li said, "He won't let any of us go now, least of all you, Mykal. I wish I knew more of him, but it may be enough to know his mental state." She looked to Jenna.

 

"You mean terrified and not thinking clearly," Jenna replied. "That is an assumption we can act on. He's new to the realities of using force. I agree with Mykal: whatever Pater is, he's no Servalan. So we have a chance. In the meantime," she sighed, "we have other problems besides our megalomaniac friend. I had not intended to break the news so soon, but you must know things are deteriorating in the Federation and the Combined Fleet is heading our way."

 

She continued, as both digested that. "We have maybe a week or two -- but no more -- before they find us. And in case you haven't noticed, we don't have a ship. All we need," she paused as if waiting for a drum roll, "is one big enough to hold 5,000 people."

Mykal managed to beam while suppressing a groan. He knew they wouldn't get it the first time. "Don't you see," holding up the memory cubes and shaking them. "We can grow a ship. We can grow fleets."

 

Li was annoyed. "Mykal, that's not funny."

 

Jenna examined him curiously. "How?"

 

"It's not a joke," he said, again feeling the frustration of not being understood, but charging past. "It's not just these cubes, or the buildings, or Pater's house. We can grow anything that makes physical sense. A ship that can hold 5000 people is trivial. I calculate," his eyes looked upward briefly, "it would take less than two days to make."

 

But Jenna did not seem to take the news happily. Indeed, for the first time she looked truly worried. She understands now, Mykal thought. She reached behind her, pulled out the two guns and handed one to Mykal and the other to Li.

 

"Get your gear, communicators, sensors, sleeping bags, and whatever personal belongings you want to keep. I want you two guarding this area and I don't want you in the lifecraft. Here," she gestured to the outside, "is where we will build a ship."

 

Both Li and Mykal felt as if they should salute.

 

Jenna, irritated, sensed that. "There will be no failure," she snapped, then said more calmly. "We have to get out of here."

 

"What if the settlement falls into Federation hands," Mykal asked.

Jenna pressed her palm against the hull and said, "Then the lifecraft's anti-matter power plant will find another use."

Mykal examined the gun. "Good-bye, New Auron," he muttered, "and everyone in it." He looked at Li.

 

"But thanks to you," Jenna said grimly, "I am now convinced the alternative is worse."

 

"If this technology can do what Mykal," Li stressed his name, "and what Pater insist it can, then the Federation is the least of our concerns."

 

"I'm inclined to agree. You two get to work," Jenna said. Then she got up abruptly and moved to the hatch, looking thoughtful as it opened. "I knew they were hiding something. I can't say I blame them, but I think," she said in a voice sounding almost cheerful as she exited the lifecraft, "it's time Clinician Franton and I had a talk."

 

To say that Franton had been expecting this visit, both in the nature and manner it was conducted, is perhaps overstating the case. Nevertheless, as anyone who practices deception around a truly honest person knows, the odds of getting caught have a way of becoming inordinately high. And Jenna was anything if not honest. She was also more than a little put out and that is a bad combination to deal with. Franton did her best. It was early in the morning, yet she managed a smile, as if to say she couldn't imagine anything she would rather be doing this hour than being interrogated by a member of Blake's legendary rebels.

"Mykal has spoken with Pater. At length. I think you understand exactly what was discussed," Jenna said bitterly. "What is going on around here? I want answers and I mean the truth. Otherwise we're both in more trouble than you can believe. Don't even think of hiding anything from me."

She looked straight at Jenna, but her speech was halting and subdued as if confessing. "I never intended to mislead you. Eventually, all of you would have been informed of the truth, but you must realize the delicacy of our situation. This technology was never supposed to leave Kaarn," Franton said. "However unrealistic that might have been, after the children had reached maturity, I told Pater we must turn our back on the power. I insisted that they would live from then on as if this settlement had never been."

 

"But Pater disagreed. He has his own ideas."

 

Franton nodded. "There was hardly anything Pater and I didn't come to disagree on. But in the end, I admitted he was right on one point: we could not walk away from this technology. It now belongs to all of us -- human and Auron. The children could not be made to forget and," she stood, "it would have been wrong to even try such a thing. All I can hope for now is that it will be used wisely. What more can I say?"

 

"I'll let you know. So what are Pater's plans?"

 

Her tone became despairing. "Pater could never reconcile himself to the destruction of Auron. He blamed it on the whole of humanity and over the years saw the annihilation of our home world as symbolic of what intelligent life did to all of creation. It became his obsession, impossible to reason with.

"When two years after the destruction of Auron, Avon joined with Servalan, Pater was too weak to keep whatever good was left in him alive. All that remains of him is a shell of a man. He tries to give his ravings an intellectual cast, but it is all madness and hate. He speaks of the destiny of the children, but will have nothing to do with them. I doubt he cares for them at all. They are just one more weapon to hurl at the enemy, and the enemy is everywhere and everyone.

 

"I will say this for him. In many ways he has seen far more clearly than myself the potential for this technology. Such is the genius of fanaticism. He certainly saw that once created it could not be destroyed. That it will be used -- for good or evil. But those concepts are meaningless to him." There was a hint of irony in her when she said, "Why do I think that you would agree with him?"

 

Jenna was taken aback. "Maybe I don't have any more faith in humanity than he does. But I believe I have a lot more faith in myself. I fail more often than I care to count, but I never give up. Avon or Servalan, or Pater for that matter, can kill me, but they cannot beat me."

 

"You don't like Aurons do you?" she asked quietly.

 

Jenna stiffened. "What difference does it make? As I said, I'm not very fond of humans either. But I made a vow to Blake to never stop fighting the Federation, what it stands for, and what makes it possible. I will keep that vow. I intend to get the job done, and I'm not choosy about the company I keep to do it."

 

Franton smiled. "You remind me so much of him, Avon that is. I only want you to understand us. We Aurons are different."

"Not that different."

 

She looked down. "Perhaps you're right. I will help you. That is  _my_  vow and I will keep it. Is that what you are seeking?"

 

"It'll do for now. We are going to have to trust each other a lot if we are to get everyone out of here."

Jenna looked around and said, "I need a ship; one with twistor drive and life support sufficient for several thousand people. Mykal says you can make one in less than two days. Can you?"

Franton glanced over to the monitor screen, blank now. "Before I answer is there a reason we have to get away so soon?"

 

"Yes," Jenna sighed. "I forgot to mention. There's a Federation Fleet bearing down on us: thousands of ships. They're certain to find Kaarn and very soon."

 

"I guess that will suffice."

 

She sat down in front of the workstation. "Have a seat. Growing a ship is a fairly straightforward thing to do."

 

Jenna sat slowly beside her, numbed by that statement. She had expected that response from Franton, hoped for it, but it was still shocking. "I'll believe it when I see it," she said.

 

Franton powered on the system, looking pleased. "We'll design the ship together. You give me the requirements, that," she inserted her hands into the data gloves and gestured to the workstation, "will generate the specs."

She then put on something that resembled a delicate set of earphones.

"This gives me total and very responsive control over the design programs by directly linking them to my brain. I'd have you work the interface --

you obviously have a much clearer idea of what you want than I do -- but it takes some practice."

She glanced over at Jenna. "I agree, time is pressing. We should be able to plant the seed first thing in the morning and, as Mykal told you, it will only take a little over a day to do the job."

Jenna put her hand out abruptly. "I don't want Pater knowing what we are doing."

 

Franton considered that. "Good point. We'll work off-line. He will know something is up, of course, but not what. Let me check something first." She sent some query commands, but all that showed on the monitor were error messages. She frowned, "This is not good. All communication links to him have been severed."

 

"Then we're going to move even faster. By the way, I'm counting on Pater not being up to his intentions."

 

Franton said nothing. She agreed with and respected Jenna, but then she had never been much of judge of humans. She had respected Avon as well. The main menu screen came on. "There is one other thing I think you should know. Whatever the alien pathogen was that wiped out Auron, it was a form of this technology."

 

"What! You mean the Federation has it!" This was as close to panic as Jenna came.

 

"I think we would know if they did. What I mean is that Servalan apparently stumbled across someone who did, never realizing what had been handed her. I say that because there have long been rumors that the Black Shield used a plague almost identical to what destroyed Auron -- and that Blake was there when an entire planet became infected by it."

Franton studied Jenna looking for confirmation. But all Jenna said was, "Let's discuss it some other time."

 

Franton shrugged, then turned to the monitor, her voice sounding as if she were encouraging a promising student, "I think you'll like this."

 

That morning the long shadows of four people drew across the badlands east of the settlement. Two of those people, one a couple of hundred meters to the north, the other a corresponding distance to the south, were armed, their weapons at ready. The two between them were in the center of a ring of narrow silver cylinders, each cylinder about two meters high and a hand breadth in diameter. These were electrical generators.

 

The site was sandy and desolate, the surface ground cold with frost.

Except for the ubiquitous clumps of Auron wheat and grass and a few of what might be generously called bushes, nothing grew. Thus the birth that was about to take place had elements of both awe and irony. The process began simply. Franton placed a tiny transparent capsule in the middle of the ring of generators.

 

This was the seed for a starship.

 

Jenna had just completed activating the generators; Franton was explaining what was taking place. "The seed can be kept indefinitely in any inert substance; water does fine. Then we activate it with a coded trigger, usually chemical but not necessarily." She injected the area around the capsule with a syringe and then covered it with a handful of sandy soil. "There is no need to do that, but I can never help myself." She stepped back looking proud. "The seed will now begin growing using the silicon and carbon from the soil and air. As for the energy required, it could come from sunlight, but for rush jobs we 'subsidize' the process. That's where these come in," she indicated the generators. "They speed and smooth the growth considerably, especially in the early stages of 'gestation' -- if you don't mind the term."

 

"How fast?" Jenna asked. The terminology did bother her. She was more nervous than she wanted to admit.

"You mean replication time? Each nano-machine replicates about once every 15 minutes. In 24 hours, the seed I planted will have grown to an

'embryo' of about one ton mass -- again, I apologize for the biological term. The ship will be completed," she said confidently looking at her watch, "before noon tomorrow."

 

Jenna looked at Mykal and Li. "Then they should keep their distance."

 

Franton almost laughed. "You aren't afraid they might get swallowed up, are you?"

 

Jenna said sullenly, "The thought did cross my mind."

 

"This technology is disconcerting enough without having to worry about that," Franton sympathized. She looked down where the seed had just been deposited. "Mind you, I wouldn't stand on it in my bare feet while its in its active phase, but honestly, it's programmed to be no more dangerous to us than being near any growing plant. It's just that everything happens a good deal faster."

 

Jenna still did not look reassured. She changed the subject. "Li and Mykal will stand guard until we have the children boarded. Getting that done will keep us plenty busy."

 

Franton powered on the generators and the tractors units that would keep them moving away from the growing ship. "Probably you don't want me to ask, but have you decided what our destination will be?" she inquired.

 

"I will tell you and the others when we are off the planet." Jenna was struggling to sound agreeable but also firm. "Right now, I want to discuss the logistics of moving the children. You're the expert. Any ideas?"

As the last generator began to hum, Franton said, "The Herberts will direct them here late tomorrow morning. I will announce to the children that they are going on a 'surprise' field trip. We haven't done one in a while, but I think they will accept that. Coy, isn't it? Yet not too far removed from the truth."

 

Jenna unhappily agreed. "A very long field trip."

 

"That's the 'surprise'." Then Franton asked, as they walked back to the settlement. "What of Pater? Or do you intend to leave him behind?"

 

"I'm not going to give him a lot of time to mull it over, if that's what you mean. We'll send him a message tomorrow." She glanced back. "But right now I am more concerned about him interfering. Beyond that, I wish I could care," she said wearily.

 

"You must care a great deal to say that the way you do."

 

She was grateful for Franton's support. It frankly surprised Jenna. "I want nothing left for the Federation," she added, changing the subject.

 

Franton quickly nodded. "I can put together a simple 'virus' to dissolve the trees and plants, even the buildings. It'll take a few of hours to program and run safety checks, but . . ."

 

Jenna looked out to the horizon. A dark mass of thunderheads was moving in. She waved to Mykal and Li. "We don't have the time. I am thinking of something quicker."

 

Franton looked at her but said nothing. She seemed to understand. A

few minutes later they passed the lifecraft. "Go on ahead. I'll join you shortly," Jenna said. "There are a few things that I have to do."

 

I have not told her that I will also detonate the anti-matter if the Federation should get here first, or should Pater . . .

 

He should have gotten used to it the first night, Mykal angrily told himself upon awakening. Anyway, the sleeping bag wasn't that bad, was it? It was waterproof. Mostly. All of which is good, because it had rained a downpour all night. And now he felt a chill like an electric current running through him. He looked up. The sky was gray but clearing rapidly. Miserable as he was, it was going to be a beautiful day.

Li had spelled him early in the evening and he had obviously slept the night. He sent her a signal from his communicator hoping not to be too embarrassed by her response. He got a quick acknowledgment beep, then:

//Rise and shine, sleepyhead! Enough beauty rest?//

 

All right, he deserved that. At least someone was on the job. Despite everything, he was feeling better, more accepting, of what had happened to Molli and it's certain-to-be fatal impact on their relationship. He would lose her, but the odds had been against it from the start and at least it would be for a good cause. He could live with that. Besides, Li wasn't so bad -- once you got to know them.

 

He shivered and for a person who dreaded warm temperatures, that was unnerving. He was glad Li couldn't see him in this pathetic state. He needed a bath and shave. He took several gulps of water and munched on something that tasted like decaying bark.

Then he remembered. The seed. He put the food away and gathered up his kit. What had happened last night? Despite the awe and excitement he felt about what was growing in the darkness, he realized a part of him wanted it to fail. Then there would be limits which would make the future easier to deal with. But, he told himself as his head cleared, the urgency of getting away overrode all other considerations.

 

He punched in a code in the communicator, this one to check on the

'object's' status. Immediately, a reassuring voice entered his mind.

//The light's poor but I can tell you it has grown. I'm surprised you didn't hear it last night with all the squeaking and hissing it was making. If you guessed it would be a ton by now, I would say that's about right. And by the way, no one's heard anything from Pater.//

 

With mounting excitement, Mykal punched in a second code: meet me at the "ship".

 

//I'll be waiting. Watch your step!//

 

Li was there when he arrived, crouched beside it. The generators were some distance away. He rubbed his eyes and started to speak. She put a finger to her lips.

He sat beside her, whispering, "Just yesterday I was trying to persuade you and Jenna it was possible. I woke up this morning trying to persuade myself it wasn't."

 

She nodded, reached over and squeezed his hand. //I know what you mean. It's our ticket out of here. But then what?//

 

Both moved back as the ground was bathed in the dawn light. Slowly at first, then with searing rapidity, the light spread over the object. There were wisps of steam drifting from it as the morning damp rapidly evaporated. The object was warm but not giving off a lot of heat. It looked like an infinitely-faceted crystal. It had tendrils (roots?) drilling into the ground that left deep groves. It had snowflake-like branches (leaves?) that moved continually, grasping at the air. It was so convoluted, branches shooting from branches, leaves upon leaves, that it reminded him in its complexity of a particularly bizarre fractal surface.

 

Except for dark surface "vein's", the outer layers of the object were transparent. But the veins converged into the interior to a solid black mass. And every few seconds, a streak of light would flash through the core accompanied by a sound like two glass plates rubbing together . . .

During the course of the hour they observed it, the sounds coming from the object growing louder and more frequent. The object was enlarging in folds, spreading further over the ground. After an hour it was the size of a large truck, and the outline of a much larger final structure was becoming clear.

 

For all its strangeness, Mykal thought, there was beauty in the thing. In the brightening sky, it shown like a pulsing jewel -- a jewel with the rhythm of a heart. The lure of something utterly extraordinary drew him in, overcoming all fear. If life was an emerging dynamic pattern, never finished in its pursuit of the grand design, then this was very near being alive.

Li seemed to guess his thoughts. //You can hear, feel it, grow. Things are going to be very different from now on.//

 

He looked at her sadly, his thoughts suddenly back to her. "Yes, very different."

 

By the full light of morning the outline of the ship, a huge cube, was apparent. Li resumed her surveillance on the periphery while Mykal continued to study the object. It was now a network of bubbles and tubes, openings and antennae, burrowing into the ground, spreading up to the sky. He calculated that less than three hours remained before the hull and the internal differentiation completed.

 

And it was three hours later, when staring up at the cliffs that were the sides of the object, that he was buzzed by Li. //Mykal, you should see this. The children of Auron, all five thousand of them, moving in a long column, six wide, with the Herberts on each side. And they're all heading this way. How's that for inspiration?//

 

Mykal decided he was inspired enough right where he was.

//Franton is in the lead . . . and Jenna is way to the back.// Li paused. //They should be here in about fifteen minutes. I'm coming back.//

 

Actually, it was about a half hour before the first of the children arrived, in a manner about as orderly as one could hope for from 5000

frenetic ten-year olds. They came in two parallel groups of triplets, guided, ("herded" did seem the better way of putting it) by the Herberts. Slowly the children surrounded the ship in vast squirming circles, the careful order assumed at the settlement quickly dissolving. Mykal walked around the ship appalled, grateful at least for the few children who were rendered motionless by their curiosity. Yet for all their boundless energy, most seemed indifferent to the huge black cube before them. They had known this was possible, and many had actually built something using this technology; the scale difference did not impress. Mykal had never thought it was possible to envy someone who was bored.

 

Franton moved energetically among the children, doing her best to keep them under control. "I want you to take notes as the 'ship'," she said to the children, her voice strained as she shouted, "nears completion. We will be going on a tour inside of it shortly. Then there will be a test."

 

Mass groans. A hand shot up. "Yes?"  _Oh, please don't make me lie any more than I have to._

 

"Isn't it going to be crowded in there?" The boy looked skeptical.

 

"There's will be hundreds of thousands of cubic meters in there when its complete. Plenty of room for everyone!"

"Even with all our things?" Franton had told them that they were to pretend they were on a real voyage in a real spaceship. They would actually spend the night in it. The idea of playing "pretend" proved to be very popular.

 

"But we're not going anywhere!"

 

"This is pretend, remember? How many of you have played 'pretend'?"

Lots of hands went up. "And when you play that game, you want it to be as real as possible, right?"

 

Squeals of agreement.

"So that's what we're going to do. Let's make this fun!"

 

"What's its name?!" someone wanted to know.

 

Franton looked anxiously to Mykal, then to Li. No one had thought of that.

 

"We'll make one up later. There will be a contest and the winner will get a prize!"

 

More hands shot up. The children were becoming more excited. Only a few seemed doubtful and worried. Franton pointed to the ship towering over them. "We're almost ready to begin boarding, so only one more question."

She was almost hoarse.

 

"Will the Herberts be coming with us?"

 

More groans. The children had mixed feelings about the Herberts, considering them a cross between a snooping sibling and a not very bright pet. "I'm afraid so, " she said. "They can be very helpful. For instance, the Herberts will help you find your way inside. On a real starship, you would want their assistance."

Discipline deteriorated all the more as the excitement of entering the ship increased. For the children this was a marvelous game that the adults would probably find a way to spoil. For the adults, it was only too easy to imagine a mass panic and the situation becoming a catastrophe.

A final shriek of growth from the inside of the ship helped bring order. The children quieted. Franton checked the time. She waved her arms for complete attention. The moment had arrived.

 

(Mykal had looked for Trysha and thought he had seen her once, but the girl might have been a cloned sister. Anyway, all he got was a raspberry for his efforts. Now he was with Li, near a student who kept looking at his gun. "Are you going to be on board, too?" the boy asked in an whiny voice. "Yes." The brat looked disappointed. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the gun. "A study aid," growled Mykal.)

 

Li smiled at the children as she telesent to Mykal, //Mykal, be nice. By the way, Franton said they've heard nothing from Pater.//

 

Bright Fall sunlight flooded the scene. The ship now completely dominated the field. An enormous monstrous cube, its jet black walls a 100

meters on each perfectly measured side, suggesting more a fortress then a ship. With trepidation and fascination, Mykal ran his hand along an edge. It was real.

 

On the walls along the base, openings began dilating.

 

Jenna, bringing the last of the children, now joined the three adults. The four had a hurried consultation and the decision was unanimous and foregone: on this fine day, it was time to begin boarding.

So the loading began, at first as uneventful as hoped. It was not until several minutes later that Li noticed.

A hazy column of smoke curling upward to the west, clouds slowly rising in the still air. It doesn't make sense, she thought. The storm was over. Clouds in steady gray puffs where the settlement was, merging into the sky. She had just turned away for an instant from the job at hand when she saw the . . . they could not be clouds.

She telesent to Jenna and Mykal: //To the west . . .// then she froze.

 

Mykal and Franton's attention was on the children; they ignored her. But Jenna, increasingly concerned about Pater's absence, wondering if they would ever get the children loaded, looked to where Li was pointing.

 

 _Fire._  She realized it at once.  _Pater!_  "Li," she spoke rapidly into the communicator, "the settlement's being burned! Franton!"

 

Franton turned around quickly, saw Jenna pointing. She held the communicator to her ear. As she hurried the children inside the ship, Franton confirmed the obvious: "He's burning it."

"Li, Mykal, drop what you are doing! Get over there!" With two quick gestures, Jenna directed them to opposite sides of the field. If they kept low, they might not be seen. "He will be coming from the settlement. Don't let him see you and don't try to stop him. Let me handle this."

 

Mykal removed his gun, ran for the cover of a few bushes to the south.

Li did the same to the north. The children stopped briefly, wondering, but the Herberts incessantly urged them forward; Jenna and Franton urged them to move ever faster. Everyone was now watching the western sky. And as the billows rose and merged above, they smelled the strange odors.

The children became noisier and more restless. They're getting alarmed. Jenna signaled Franton: "Can you distract them! Get them singing or something. They sense something is wrong."

"Children," Franton shouted, "we must move faster. I want you to sing so we can all stay together. Follow my lead." Franton began the song ("ALL SPACE AND TIME, ALL HOPE AND LIFE"). It was part of the Auron Song Cycle called the Ultimate Significance of Time. The children in uncertain voices joined ("ALL JOY TO BEHOLD, ALL PEACE IN STRIFE"). The adults, fascinated, watching the advancing flames.

_My God. He's destroying everything._

When the last of the children had entered, Jenna turned to Franton, now standing beside her. "Take this," Jenna handed her a slip of paper. "Follow the instructions. It's tells where we're going. It also has a suggestion for a lesson plan. I'll explain later if you have questions." Franton was hesitant. Jenna exploded in impatience. "Inside! Now!"

 

Franton nodded, but did not leave. She kept starring at the smoke, flames visible now. "Please! Let me talk with him. I know him."

 

"And he knows you!" she snapped. "I will not give him any advantage!"

 

Reluctantly, Franton obeyed.

 

Jenna walked to the top of the depression as all but one of the entry portals sealed shut. She saw someone move and for a moment thought it was Mykal. She almost yelled into the communicator that he must get out of sight. Then she realized. It was Pater, striding towards her, carrying a weapon.

(Mykal kept down, crawling closer using his elbows. The bushes offered little in the way of cover and the thought of Pater seeing him was terrifying, but he had to hear what was being said.)

 

Pater stopped and pointed the weapon directly at Jenna. The sun was blood red above them in the smoke. A solid line of fire was behind him. She saw the trees shrivel, their limbs blacken and explode in flames.

Pater surveyed the ship, his voice calm but his hands nervous. "How thoughtful of you to provide me with a warship. The design is deplorable, but I will change that. Have you named it?"

 

"Never gave it a thought."

 

He shook his head in mock sadness. "Imagination is always lacking in your type. May I suggest one?" he smiled. " _Sword of Auron_. Do you like it? Names are important. A proper name will inspire the children. They and I have much to do and far to go."

 

"For example?"

 

"Earth for a start."

 

"Put away the gun, Pater, if you want to come with us," she said evenly. "And we are not going to Earth."

 

"I beg to differ. Oh, the gun," he glanced at it. "You object to it? I'm hurt. It's very deadly. I thought you might like it." He scowled. "The gun stays with me. This party is in my honor," he took aim at the ship behind her and yelled: "The children are mine!", then jabbed the gun at her face.

She did not move. He was not quite ready to kill her. "You will do what I order. Still," he relaxed his stance slightly, his tone suddenly changing. "I don't hate you. I think you would make a good spokeswoman to humanity -- or example. You can choose."

 

"Go to hell."

 

Pater was silent for several seconds, as if enduring some unspeakable disappointment. "Vanity and hubris. I should not have hoped you might understand. There never is an alternative when dealing with humanity -- force in service of a higher good -- you of all people should know that. The good I have discovered is the highest of all!" he raged.

 

"So I've been told."

 

"Mykal," he paused. "He admires you. It's regrettable, but I almost see why." Pater moved closer. "I can do to that ship, and you, what I did to the settlement, and I won't even blink." He stopped, remembering: "Where is Mykal?!" he bellowed.

 

Jenna glanced up at the ship, then looked at the wall of billowing smoke. She wrinkled her nose. "You're polluting the air."

 

He was puzzled briefly, then was furious. "For once smoke is not pollution! It's a cleansing. I am restoring the planet to it's pristine state."

 

"And if I 'beg to differ'?"

 

"Then you will  _beg_  to live."

 

"We keep coming back to that," she spread her hands. "Whatever gave you the impression I am a beggar? I'm unarmed. Will that make it easier for you? Or do you want me to plead?"

He took in a breath and jabbed the gun at her. "You're being unarmed changes nothing."

 

It was at that moment that Franton appeared at the opening of the ship and ran towards them, her voice breaking, "Pater! No! You're one of the Auronar! You can't murder!"

 

She tried to get past Jenna, but Jenna furious, grabbed her. "Stay out of this!" she hissed. They grappled, but Franton was wild and with surprising strength shoved her away. "Kill me!" she yelled at Pater. "Kill one of your own people!"

 

"You are no longer one of my people. My people are in there!" he roared back, "and I'll hardly be the first to kill. Cally killed. Anyone can. It's not hard. She'll," he gestured to Jenna, "tell you that."

 

Franton lunged forward. Jenna grabbed her wrist, then reached out with her foot and tripped her. "Stay there!"

Franton slowly got back up, unsure. Pater stepped back. Both women were in his sights. Mykal watched in horror. He inched his gun forward. His hands could barely hold it. Behind them, he thought he saw Li crawling forward. The he saw her rising out of the grass. There was a sound, like a branch snapping.

 

Pater heard, swung the weapon around at Li , her gun pointing at him . . . Jenna started forward. Pater swung the gun back wild with rage, "Where's Mykal!". He aimed at the women; Mykal rose with a yell "PATER!"

Pater was in his sights, the air orange from the flames as a wave of smoke poured in . . . the man turned the gun at him. Mykal's hand burst with sweat as he squeezed. "Mykal!" Jenna yelled and dove as a burst of energy arced through the air followed almost at once by a second burst from behind Pater and Pater's gun flew up spinning as he crumpled.

 

Then were was quiet. Slowly all four converged on the body. Franton broke down, on her knees sobbing. "All for nothing," she kept repeating.

Jenna stooped and retrieved Pater's weapon. She put her hand on Mykal's shoulder.

"How can you be so calm? My God, I killed him," said Mykal, shaking.

"Kill when you have to, Mykal. Just leave the Lord out of it."

 

The smoke was becoming overpowering. Li helped Franton up; the four of them coughing, entered the ship. No one looked back as the hatchway closed.

 

Even with a Herbert guiding them, it was several minutes before they reached the control room at the ship's center. Mykal pitched his kit into the corner. The recorder fell out and clattered to the floor. It was Mykal who spoke first. "Now, where?" he asked Jenna.

Jenna waited for Franton to leave. She wanted only Li and Mykal to be present when the announcement was made. Franton recovered sufficiently to return to her task of bringing order to the ship. Muffled now, the singing continued:  _" . . . to every tree and every ocean, to Man and Nature, our minds in devotion . . ."_.

Jenna checked the ship's systems, confirming that her instructions had been followed. She initiated the launch sequence and shortly after noon, local time, the starship  _Sword of Auron_  (she rather liked the name) freed itself from ground and gravity and lifted majestically to stationary orbit.

 

It was only then that she turned to face her companions. Resting her elbow on the chair, she assumed an air of both resignation and defiance. An explanation would be required, but she could barely believe the decision herself. In the monitor above them, the blue and bronze planet of Kaarn floated peacefully.

_A sense of destiny makes one a slave. I will do my best to spare you that fate._

"In my decision," Jenna began, "I considered both you and the children. As for the children, to be blunt, their people are in no position to defend them and, given the current 'situation', there are few worlds that would take them in." The singing went on, echoing in the halls. "The destination I have chosen will at least do that. I repeat, I have no desire to go where we will be heading, but the decision is, I believe, the best all factors considered."

 

She clutched at the weapon. "I intend to finish the job Blake started. I doubt I will survive its completion, but such are the risks of armed conflict. I neither embrace nor shrink from what lies ahead. I shall do my job; alone, or with whomever will join me.

 

"It might be argued that we could hide the children on another planet. Or go in hiding ourselves and develop the weapons this technology makes possible. However, time is short and what the Aurons have discovered makes neither alternative viable.

"A 'solution' to be acceptable must involve both humans and Aurons. I, for one, do not possess the unbridled arrogance to assume the role of spokeswoman for humanity."

 

She swept the weapon across the interior of the control room like a sword, finally directing it at the image of Kaarn. "We have come to a divide -- another one. So extreme is the power of this 'nanotechnology', one could even argue that whoever wins or loses is irrelevant. That in the new world now born, it will overwhelm any attempt to control it -- especially in the brutal fashion that we have come to associate with the Federation. Yet, I cannot accept that 'solution' either.

"We must never shrug off the responsibility, the glory of being choosing beings. Our value as intelligent, autonomous beings is absolute.

This technology neither enhances nor degrades us -- except to the extent we permit it. Far from making us cowards, it is my hope that the challenges we now face will make us heroes. ( _A little corn at times like this never hurts._ )

 

"We must win. But to win we need allies and as you are no doubt aware they are in short supply these days.

She paused. "I did not intend to go to Lindor," she said as casually as possible. "The Lindor Confederacy is certain to receive the full brunt of Federation might in the near future. But Lindor is the only system in the galaxy both capable of resistance to the Federation and the only one bold enough to accept the children of Auron. And with this technology," she put the gun down with a crack, "we will have a chance.

 

"There is one more thing," she said flatly, "Avon is there also." That awakened them. "We can never trust him, but we need him; his mind, if nothing else. Having received a summons from President Sarkoff himself," My, watch the jaws drop, "the die is cast once more. This ship is going to Lindor."

She waited. The news brought Mykal abruptly out of his depression. "How do you know he's there? I mean, the fact would hardly be let out."

 

For the first time in months, Jenna truly smiled. "I was hoping someone would ask. What I did was scan for coded messages, under just such a premise. I made some lucky, but I believe educated, guesses -- not the least of which was the possibility that he might have been `directed` to Lindor by the same force that brought us to Kaarn. With simple programming, I searched for acrostics in the broadcasts out of Lindor: acrostics are sentences that the first letter of each word join to spell out some meaningful word or phrase. The 'Entity', as we know, has shown a distinct fondness for such word play.

 

"Two nights ago, I found the message in one of President Sarkoff's speeches. Lindor is in the midst of an election campaign, so a lot of speech making is going on. The contest is viewed as close but Sarkoff is a good speaker and everything he says his supporters have been laying on thick."

She inserted a memory cube and a phrase in large white letters appeared over the image of the planet. "This is Sarkoff's statement:

_'Whether justice is a value or not; is supreme, honored, eternal, right_

\-- (is) entirely contingent on man's enlightenment. Justice endures. No, not as a gift of God or the State, but as an unending struggle of each individual for knowledge and truth.'

 

"Starting with the phrase 'a value or' and ending with 'a gift of', the acrostic reads (she highlighted the letters): ' **Avon is here, come Jenna**.'

 

"And so I shall," she said, "But I have no right to force either of you to come with me. Understand: I want you with me. My father once said, though I do not know where he got it: 'Two are better than one . . . and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.' Half of 'Li' understands what I am asking; I suspect Mykal and 'everyone' else is beginning to."

She looked up at the image of Kaarn. "I am asking you to choose now.

There is still time to be dropped off on some off-the-way planet before we reach Lindor. I won't hold it against you if you make that choice. You have paid your dues. All that I ask is that if you chose to be part of this, that you stick with me -- us -- to the end. Avon and I," she looked terribly unhappy as she said that, "will need you."

 

Jenna sat down and put her hands on her lap. It was the longest speech she had ever made. Li went over to her. "I would not have become one with my sister if I did not accept that I would be a part of this struggle. I

told you I have forgiven you. Now I am telling you I am with you, my friend." She looked at Jenna steadily: //You can count on us both.//

 

Li held our her hand. Jenna reluctantly took it. "And you, Mykal?"

said Jenna.

"Dr. Geir once told me the best gift a teacher can give a student is the drive to keep asking questions. He asked many questions in his life and inspired me to do the same. I want to do my best to answer them, for myself and for him. I believe sticking with you and Avon will give me some clues," he rubbed his jaw, "It already has. I am with you."

 

Jenna stood as Li came over beside Mykal. //Part of me will always be with you, Mykal,// he heard.

She held out her hand. He took it, but their touch was uncertain, neither could looked at the other. "Best wishes," he whispered.

//He is so sad.//

//Too sad. Just like his hero.//

He did not want her to see how unhappy he was or guess how lonely he felt, but part of him knew that too was another helpless wish against a rising tide of futility.

 

And Molli thought, feeling trapped and confused, that she desperately needed to talk to Avon. That there was a bond between them, one they had to understand and perhaps in that understanding find a reason yet to hope.

Jenna watched the monitor for a few more moments, the letters of Sarkoff's message dissolving before her. "It's time for 'Jenna's Two' to do their bit." She reached over, and pressed a button and there was a flash on the screen. "That was the lifecraft, finishing the job. There is now nothing left of the settlement."

 

She switched off the screen.

And as Li (//Is it time to tell her? She suspects we are withholding something.// //She suspects, but no, not now. Later.//) . . . And as Mykal ( _I will always love you_.) took their respective places . . . And as Franton began teaching the children the history of Blake's Rebellion, and the planet named Auron . . .

Jenna said simply, in a hushed emotionless voice, more to herself than to the others: "To Lindor."

 

"New Auron has been located, Supreme Commander."

Servalan eyed the officer. Such a statement required proof that it would be very dangerous not to possess. She sincerely hoped he had it. She hated to see boldness wasted.

 

"Well?!"

 

The officer said confidently, "The remains of a settlement gives the proof. Though the buildings are utterly destroyed, the explosion was not completely thorough. Surprisingly the foundations remain. If I may say so, they must have been remarkably deep and strong to survive an anti-matter explosion of such magnitude."

 

"You said 'anti-matter'. How large an explosion?"

 

He gave the exact figure in megatons.

 

"Precisely that of a lifecraft's power plant -- should one destruct. And just one such power plant . . ."

 

"That is correct, Supreme Commander. Only one."

 

She frowned. "Not yet conclusive. I presume there is more?"

 

"Yes, Supreme Commander. Scattered over the continent is vegetation that can be positively identified as having originated on the planet Auron. We also detected the radiation backwash of a ship. It could only have departed at most a week ago. From the radioactivity of the explosion, we conclude that both events occurred simultaneously."

 

Now she was satisfied. So one of the  _Bellerophon's_  lifecraft had made it to Kaarn. If there had been two lifecraft, the explosion would have been correspondingly greater. And a lifecraft can hold only three persons . . .

"Put the remains of the settlement on the screen. I want to see 'New Auron'."

 

The monitor screen split, the image of the officer was crowded into a small corner as the destroyed settlement was displayed before her. The foundations must have been deep to have survived that. Why had they destroyed it? What were they so desperate to keep from her? It had to be something very threatening and very useful.

How depressed she was! She had been so close. A few days difference and the Aurons and three of the fugitives would have been trapped. But she consoled herself. Only her timing had been off. The future remained unchanged as it beckoned her forward.

 

The officer cautiously added another piece of information, "Because of the age of the radiation track from the twistor drive, a precise fix on their course is not possible . . ."

 

"It is of no importance. I know where they are going."

 

And though my knowledge tells me I have erred, I believe I know who awaits them. It was time for action superseding all thought. It was a power and right reserved only for those who had an intuitive grasp of power. She gave the first order.

 

The officer showed no surprise. As soon as they confirmed Aurons had been here, the means to carry out this order had been assembled. To Servalan's delight, in only a few seconds the planet's surface began to redden, to boil in waves of black bubbles and to vaporize. It was a wonderful moment, but not to be indulged in. Her hand shot out and she struck the image of Kaarn from the screen. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. Once before the Federation had dealt with that unreliable planet. An old-fashioned combination of ballot-stuffing and subversion had sufficed. This time, however, the methods would be more direct.

The officer waited. She gave the second order: "To Lindor!"


	5. The Life of His Epoch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously Published in Dark Between the Stars #4

_A man lives not only his personal life as an individual, but also, consciously or unconsciously, the life of his epoch and his contemporaries._

 

 

-Thomas Mann

A Greater Than Themselves

Leave me alone!

 **S** tately President Sarkoff sat behind his majestic desk, unhappily contemplating that huge electronic slab curved around him like a frown, flowing before him like a glass plain; confining him like a pen. In that glass was the reflection of a vibrant blond woman, as forbidding as she was attractive. He did not want to look at her. Weak it was to hide (in this office, for him!), but it was also not without amusement to study her gesturing as if some insect caught in amber that had not quite congealed. For almost any other individual on Lindor this scene would have been impossible. Sarkoff would merely have raised his head and the directed stare with the implied power behind it would have been overwhelming. In the Lindor Confederacy, indeed throughout the Federation, his name was legend (in a galaxy already overcrowded with them). But with this one individual, his confident, his nemesis, his daughter, it was he who was on the defensive.

No action must betray him; he must be silent and impervious as a monolith - not a favorite pose but one he could manage. From long experience, he knew it was best to take it; to let her go on until frustration, exhaustion, or both overcame her.  _Dear Tyce: How you love to play the game. And so much better at it than I_.

He toyed with a writing implement.  _So I have failed you again. Is that not the ultimate role of a parent?_

His attention had wavered for an instant.  _Oh my. I hope I haven't missed something vital._

" . . . I have in addition taken the following steps to reorganize your campaign staff . . . "

He almost smiled, though part of him felt a more appropriate reaction would have been to shudder. She could be terrifying. He often wondered if Tyce were the born politician in the family, not him.

"The following names have been shifted . . ."

He wanted to groan.  _To her, they're no longer individuals. They're hardly even "names" . . . but that's how it's done!_

Tyce reported with crisp efficiency the list of changes. Naturally, he would accept the lot. There was no arguing with such orchestrated finality. He didn't even see a point in protesting, as he drummed his fingers ever so softly on the desk.  _There is nothing halfway about her. Perhaps her influence was too . . . - everyone said so_ , but while he did resent her intrusions, he was resigned to relenting once more: the changes to his campaign were essential if defeat were to be avoided. The public barometers had not been registering fair weather of late for his reelection effort, this certain to be final campaign.  _Barely able to keep pace in the polls is more like it._

He wanted to assure her that he had been planning just such a move, very much along the lines of what she was "proposing". But events, as she should know, had intruded of late. It was one of the drawbacks to being an incumbent. But she never would accept excuses. She understood better than anyone, did she not, the unpleasant realities of the game?

The great man worried. Events had been very distracting of late.

She snapped the screen off and the lights came up. Sarkoff blinked. She stared intently as his face lifted to meet her. "Please review the revised campaign schedule. Some of the changes are minor, but all were necessary," she said.

His eyes centered on her.  _No assurance necessary. Don't even think of sparing me._

Of course, she wouldn't. She went on. "There are other items. One is particularly indicative of your drift of late. I know you do not wish to appear on the same continent with," she mentioned the name of a popular singer, "but it could hardly do your campaign harm, particularly at this stage. It might even show you as contrite. The people need that every now and then."

Sarkoff looked hurt; Tyce shook her head slowly in reproof. "Contrary to your unmannered opinion-which admittedly should never have gotten to the media-her voice is considered by most critics to be a 'galactic treasure.' It wouldn't compromise any of your principles to act as if that judgment possessed some truth."

 _A galactic_  curse  _is more like it. You are being unduly harsh, darling daughter. I never sought to enter into a public dispute regarding this individual's, oh what shall we call it,_ singing? _I simply stated-in private, I might add-to one of my late trusted campaign staff that what said individual does is_ yell, _not sing._

Sarkoff brought his hands together and twiddled his thumbs, looking relaxed and insouciant. Tyce was not fooled. "So I won't find work as a music critic," he muttered. Tyce was one of those exceptionally thorough people who could convey anger, disgust, and sympathy simultaneously. Sarkoff got a blast of all three.  _She thinks all of life is encompassed within the sphere of politics. That frightens me. She couldn't be more mistaken. If she thinks that, I have truly failed her._

Tyce continued forcefully. "I am not yet finished. There are even graver matters. Your veto of the education funding package," she concluded ominously. Sarkoff placed his hands behind his head; almost put his feet on the desk.  _Could the public possibly be as worked up about such things as his opponents?_ Regrettably, they might indeed. It was most unlike them, but such did happen. The voters: what to make of them? A generation of public service and they were still a mystery to him. In his experience, the masses were usually far more interested in the petty-like those rumors about Tyce. He lowered his hands to his lap and made a mental note. _Why did I have to remind myself? I have to talk with Lee._

Anyway, arcane matters of public funding for this program or that, while a matter of principle, nevertheless came within the sphere of "practical". Yes, he was willing to compromise for the good of the campaign. He felt himself becoming increasingly irritated.  _Do we have to get into that one, now? And will she never finish?_  He snorted and said unconvincingly: "Anyone can see it was the opposition's attempt to pass an 'unqualified intellectuals full employment act,' and just before election day-amazing coincidence that. I grant it was of questionable taste for me to interject principle into my campaign. It won't happen again," he sounded bitter and hated himself for it.

"Just drop any mention of it. In a few days the furor might die down."

She had a point. Stir the teapot now and his lead, never that firm to begin with, might well vanish. He had heard rumors that some in his administration were already sending out their resumes.

"These errors have hurt you at a time your campaign can least afford it. Coupled with your closing of Lindor's embassy on Earth . . . "

 _Enough!_  He rose, spread his arms wide, his voice booming in the huge office. "Very well, Tyce. I let my principles show, musical as well as political. I admit to rubbing their noses in it. Was it such bad manners that I cannot be forgiven?" He let his arms drop, slapping his sides as he looked dejected.

She was furious. "Father, this is not funny."

"Conceded. My actions of late have done nothing to inspire confidence. I am contrite. It is time wiser and cooler heads took over." He couldn't resist: "Where is Blake when we need him?"

"That's not funny either. Your campaign is in serious trouble. Defeat which seemed unthinkable only a few months ago, now seems quite possible. Something had to be done. Now, would you please add substance to this conversation?"

He resumed feigning indifference, his expression quizzical, as if he were before a stranger who for some obscure reason clearly knew much more than she should about him.  _She knows me better than anyone._

"Your people are worried," Tyce said simply.

He sighed, moving closer. "They have every right to be."  _My people. Such an arrogant statement, as if I owned them!_  "They are not alone. Their President . . . ," he stiffened as he faced her, "is with them. But for the moment," he edged slowly beside her, "I see they are in capable hands. So, if you will forgive me," he glanced at the clock, looking impish, "I shall retire for my afternoon nap."

She looked more saddened than angry now. "No one is questioning your ability as a statesman, father. I am sorry if I offended you. But it had to be done."

"Where no offense is intended, none is taken." He seemed to be speaking to the room at large, to the ancient objects that had consoled him during his exile of a decade before as if they were a cheering audience (these artifacts of a long forgotten past reminded him of many things, among them that defeat was frequently the fate of humanity).

Tyce couldn't stand it when he got like this.

"What a team we make. You supply the honesty; I the courtesy, or is it the other way around? Together we keep in order what remains of Lindor's bold experiment in democratic union." Finally, he risked putting his arm on her shoulder.

"Please don't patronize me. I'm not your chauffeur anymore." She glared at him.

"No, Tyce," he agreed warmly, "but you remain the  _driving_  force in my life. I promise to tone down my principles until the election is behind us. We will discuss the details later, but for now you have my approval."

As he was leaving, he stopped and turned to her. "We have endured so much together. One wonders what will come next? I  _do_  want you with me, no matter what happens."

But to that, she had nothing to say.

 

Good Lord, Avon! A prisoner again. Never innocent of the state of incarceration (never innocent period), yet he found it this time to be particularly jarring. For one of the few times of his life, words like "unfair" and "embarrassing" occurred to him. The guards who roughly escorted him with measured stomps and the medical personnel who examined him coldly seemed to have not the slightest idea who he might be, or if they did, were utterly indifferent. They scarcely seemed to be able to stifle their contempt.

In this neck of the galactic woods, "dead" Avon was stale news indeed. Small compensation that such might favor his survival! Here, amidst the wholesome odor of rubbing alcohol and the cheerful glare of cold chrome, he was reduced to being but another derelict. Just another stellar hobo who had caught the night flight to Lindor eager for a handout and a taste of that bizarre notion called freedom, at least a struggling democracy's convoluted version of it. He might as well be dead if this was to be his fate.

So as we now rejoin our hero (he has been missed), flanked between two heavily armed guards and in his new more restrained "apparel" (take a whiff Avon, it's sarcasm), we observe him as he is marched before the commander of the base (the base is one of Lindor's advanced defense outposts on the outer perimeters of the system, say a billion or so kilometers from the home world). In mood, Avon is struggling to become more analytical than resentful: the pose assumed is that of a distant, if sullen, observer. Sadly, he is not yet his chipper self. The man before him, he surmises (Avon guesses him to be an officer high enough in rank to act on his own and to relish the opportunity to do so) could be more bad news. Was life with  _her_  so bad?

He examines his surroundings. This room is almost barren, the most conspicuous features being a huge picture of President Sarkoff behind the officer, a monitor now blank, that dominates the white wall to his interrogator's right, and a desk with a monitor directly before said interrogator.

Avon tried to be big about it.

The officer looks at him with disgust as if to suggest to his captive that he dare not attempt to hide anything here. Well, such is the military! For a man supposedly in service of the only democracy in the Galaxy, his manner hardly seemed different from any Federation minion, but Avon tactfully kept that observation to himself: he hadn't really expected to be made welcome.

"Hand any better?"

"Your doctors have not succeeded in rendering it inoperable, if that is what you mean."

"Glad to hear that. The Lindor Defense Forces treat captives well - whatever mission they may be on." He straightened in his chair. "Name!"

Avon's frame was congealed in the rumbled and oversize outfit. As so many times since his rescue, he said, "Kerr Avon," adding tonelessly, "late of the Terran Federation." He gestured to the monitor, "Trust it."

The voice activator on the monitor spelled out the name. A scowl spreading across the officer's face as if someone had spilled a bottle of deep irritation. He had not expected the prisoner to continue to insist on that absurdity. Yet no alarm sounded . . .

"'Lord Kerr Avon . . . ," he growled, "and  _I_  am Blake's clone. Let me put it this way," he leaned slightly forward, "I grant you do bear a passing resemblance to the late Lord Protector-bet it's effective with the ladies-but like faith and fidelity, it just isn't so. So would you care to just once, for my benefit - ignore the gentlemen beside you - tell the truth? It can't hurt."

"That is my name and identity. I regret I do not have any identification with me to serve as proof. My departure was rather abrupt," he added.

The officer laughed. "I do believe that! Never mind, our medical people have gotten enough samples from you to enable the computers to track you down. If you can be tracked down. If you are a Federation agent, you or your superiors or both are not very bright. Care to try again? From where did you 'depart' so abruptly?"

Avon eyes roamed the room. "The Black Shield." Even he was starting to question it.

The officer's voice was strained as he glowered at Avon. "Consistency. Why did anyone ever think it was a virtue? Friend, let me explain something. The Black Shield is by the reckoning of rational people thousands of light years from here. There is no conceivable way you or anyone could have traversed that distance in the time allotted in of all things, a lifecraft." The man stood and roared, "Everything about you is a lie!. Lord Avon is dead, dead! We keep up with the news! This is the Lindor Confederacy." He snapped on the monitor and a black void appeared. There were a few moments of awkward silence.

He adjusted the screen to show the planetary landscape, then made a gesture as if shooing away a fly. He smiled mirthlessly and slowly returned to his chair. "The only reason I asked for this post was that when I retire, not too many years distant, I will receive a somewhat more generous pension. My pension means a great deal to me. By nature I am a patient man, but war jitters are high these days. I would hate to have to bend the rules to get the truth."

Tact now failed Avon. "The name is Kerr Avon. Do you require assistance in spelling it?"

The officer said nothing. The men holding Avon's arms tightened their grip. "The computers will inform you that I am speaking the truth," Avon added.

The officer glanced over to the monitor. Lindor's far off sun, just above the horizon of a bleak white and rocky landscape was little brighter than the surrounding stars. In the black of space, the occasional flare of a photon rocket could be seen. After a while, he turned to Avon and landed both elbows with a thud on his desk. "It's a cold day - weather forecasting is so easy here," he mused. "Return him to his cell. Computers also are known to lie, or breakdown. Is that what you are counting on?"

Avon was silent as the guards returned him to his cell. "I will not see you again until I know who you are," the officer said, his eyes empty as gun barrels, "And I don't want to see you even then. Dismissed!"

 

Whatever the failings of bureaucracies (the "vast mass of routine" in the words of one philosopher), and many they are, they still can possess strength in their individual employees. As noted, the Lindor Defense Forces ( **LDF**  for short-bureaucracies love acronyms) had reacted after a fashion to the intrusion of an unknown individual into their jurisdiction. Without proper, indeed, any identification on him, (also noted) suspicions were raised. But strangers wandering in from the absolute cold of space were hardly news. This particular instance would have escaped official consciousness like a deeply buried stone had not the curiosity of one employee been roused to pursue the matter. Something was odd about the story, beyond its sheer implausibility.

Ignoring the strictures of bureaucratic protocol, passing uncaring superiors and indifferent peers, cajoling anyone who would listen, this individual ultimately got access to the "Link" files. These were files captured from the Federation some years before by an act of breathtaking electronic chicanery. What had happened was that the security of Federation personnel files had been breached - temporarily - by Lindor electronic surveillance. What came out was a grab bag of medical detail that no one knew what to make of. In the bag was data on one Kerr Avon (though not Servalan-her files, if they existed at all, were utterly inaccessible). [ _Editor's note: Nor Blake's-his had long since been destroyed-_ V.R.] The information was cataloged, stored, and almost forgotten.

But this employee remembered. The transmitted tests from the distant station where the captive resided were compared with the file. More hours followed as the employee tried to convince anyone in hearing what he had discovered-the undeniable truth that the captive was indeed the Kerr Avon.

Finally (it's well into the second day now), someone high up grudgingly assented to look into the matter. Maybe it was a slow day. We'll never know.

A few hours later, much faster, the wheels began to turn. Actions were forthcoming. A certain officer, late of a remote outpost in the backwaters of the Lindor system and a relative to that high official was given a stunning promotion for brilliant detective work. A cruiser on routine patrol suddenly found itself racing to that moonlet with similar promotions for its officers. Things moved faster still. Sarkoff himself was informed by anxious aides. And Avon, late Minister of Science and Defense of the Terran Federation found himself once again elevated to that state where his clothes were improved, if no more attractive.

Shaking the hand of the base commander as both prepared for their departures, he was informed he was being summoned before President Sarkoff himself. At this stage, Avon hardly cared.

As for the employee, nobody remembered him at all.

 

 

While the sequence of events eluded him, gray-haired but no wiser Avon could have predicted the end result. Could one yawn and smile simultaneously? Avon could. But as he paced the confines in the cabin, as the engines of the Battle Cruiser strained to the limit of all prudence, he achieved sufficient analysity to remind himself Sarkoff was no friend. To be summoned directly before the man was a dubious honor. He was also a man Avon did not know. The opportunity had been there but the two had never spoken during the episode in which Blake had rescued Sarkoff and his daughter from a Federation prison. It was way too late to make up for the slight.

Then there was the question of what had transpired in the Federation since he had fled the Black Shield. And of its ruler. Was she quietly or loudly tracking him down? The rumors were very unclear. It would all have to be taken into account before he uttered a word.

(For the record, during the course of the voyage to Lindor, he never once thought of Jenna or her companions, or what might have been their fate.)

Meanwhile, back on Lindor, since the extraordinary swiftness of Servalan's coup de main, President Sarkoff like everyone else in the Galaxy had wondered where she would strike next. Common wisdom concluded that Lindor was the most likely target and for once Sarkoff agreed with common wisdom. Not that Lindor was in any way a threat, its relative weakness and lack of war-like intent precluded that. But as a symbol of resistance to and independence from the Federation, it was more than an annoyance. Once Lindor was chastised (common wisdom hoped without too great a loss of life), it was reasonable to assume Servalan would then return to the Center and finish off the rebellions at her leisure. For her at least the crisis would be over.

Not surprisingly, one-way travel out of the Lindor Confederacy was booming.

Sarkoff had done everything within his power to avoid entanglements with the Federation, but the mere fact that Lindor was free and that Sarkoff was a man of principle made clashes all but certain. The Federation and Sarkoff went back a while. It would be hard for her to pass up the opportunity to put him in his place. The presence of Avon in the Lindor system gave her all the excuse she needed. What Sarkoff had done in the past was irksome but could be shrugged off. Cutting trade, breaking diplomatic relations, these were mere embarrassments to her. But giving refuge, however reluctantly, to Avon was unforgivable.

Now the greatest crisis in his long presidency (he had served, with one interruption, for nearly twenty years) was upon him. Even his own daughter had discussed with him the possibility of their going into exile.

These were the implications of Avon's arrival that formed in his mind like slow steps into a swamp, growing deeper and more treacherous with each fearful moment. As he awoke from his afternoon nap his mind cried:  _What devil could have brought that man here? Avon. Of all people. Avon, the bearer of death._

To his aides he responded to the news of the positive identification with congratulations. He assumed the air of dull dispatch of someone who had expected it. No show of panic would be permitted.

His government people had done well. They had responded to the occurrence with probably all the efficiency he could have expected. He took a long drink of water. Then another. There were as yet no indications of the Combined Fleet being near Lindor (though the sheer vastness of space precluded certainty on that point).

Lindor might have some time.

What was truly chilling to Sarkoff was the realization he would not submit to Federation demands on Avon. Loathsome as he was, Avon would not be turned over to those who were worse. That would be wrong - but wait, he mustn't think like that. His daughter had warned him, had she not? His principles were showing.  _That could be fatal_.

Sarkoff ordered absolute secrecy and utmost haste in bringing the fugitive before him. He then went as he did almost every evening to dine with his daughter and son-in-law. It was dangerous to break routine-both would suspect at once something was up. Sarkoff also had not the slightest inkling what else he could possibly do.

Understandably, he was glum during the meal. Other than the usual dinner courtesies, he said little. Thankfully, neither of his guests were particularly talkative either. Perhaps it was the campaign. Everyone had grown nervous over the past several weeks, and since his daughter and son-in-law had very little to say to each other anyway these days, it made for an uncomfortable dining experience, but one utterly in keeping with everyone's mood.

_Avon is alive and well and here. Unless he was turned over to Federation authorities at once, it means war._

Finally, Sarkoff stood, pushed away his desert, thanked them for coming, as he did every time he got to see them, and returned to his office-taking a circuitous route that made it look like he was retiring to his bedroom.

The temptation to turn Avon over to Servalan was real. The irony was galling. Only she could possibly hold any love for the man who killed Blake.  _Then let her have him and a fine fate would be his_. But it was more than a matter of retribution. It was a matter of law. It was also a matter of curiosity. Like everyone else in the galaxy, Sarkoff was intrigued by Avon. Maybe there was a point and purpose to him being here. As he entered the cold quiet of his office, he resolved that there was something he had to understand in this well-disguised blessing.

Desperate as he was to keep Lindor out of any conflict with the Federation, tweaking the devil's tail from time to time had been well within the bounds of prudence. It was Sarkoff himself who directed the highly successful campaign referred to as "Artistic Resistance", in which works of ancient art were modified and distributed for "satirical" intent. They had poured forth from Lindor over the years. One of the most notorious examples was a reworking of the play "Julius Caesar." It was designed to irk both Servalan and Avon by reflecting them both in the mirror of moral piety. A perfect metaphor it had turned out to be. It had been very popular.

At first, the Federation had ignored everything that came out of Lindor. But over the years it became increasingly less tolerant. Protests mounted and Sarkoff found it prudent to cut back and ultimate close down that program of subversion. He was never sure if any good had come of it, but it had been fun.

 _If they only had more time_. History showed that left to its own devices, tyrannies like the Federation would weaken. Servalan's death would probably be sufficient to bring down the whole of it. Her rule had survived by a only hair's breadth during Blake's Rebellion, or so it seemed. Her luck had to run out. If Lindor's held, freedom might be reborn.

But rebellion, like love, required patience. Sarkoff had criticized Blake - in private - for very likely prolonging the Federation's wretched existence by his antics. Even Tyce, who worshiped Blake, had come to agree. Still, despite the man's crudeness, Sarkoff missed him. He had come to feel almost a fondness for the rebel's unthinking rush to action.

That Avon had survived was enough to make one believe in a particularly uncaring God.

To Sarkoff, Avon's life, even more than Servalan's (or Blake's, if you came right down to it) had come to symbolize all that had failed in humanity. If one could understand Avon, perhaps, one might have a clue to the failure. He truly believed it was through the lives of individuals that one came to know the life of their epoch. But how to understand the life of this man, seemingly without parallel in brilliance and duplicity? In Avon, Sarkoff, like the rest of mankind, was without guidance. Sarkoff was a politician, a trader of favors for power. Power, yes. He did not understand someone who seemingly only traded in death.

When Blake had sprung him out of his prison ( _over a decade before-that long . . ._ ), he had been given the rarest of opportunities to meet almost all of the original rebel band: the gentle Gan, the fiery Cally, the bitter Jenna, the most human Vila, and Blake himself . . . but not Avon. Avon kept his distance. Sarkoff was not offended, but he had been worried. He knew this was a sign of coming trouble. Here was a man who was clearly a match for Blake. Perhaps the only one who could have matched him. Sarkoff kept the realization to himself. Not to trouble one's host, or rescuer, was a noble courtesy. When he saw Blake again, he told himself, the matter would be mentioned. But soon enough Sarkoff was overwhelmed with the task of bringing peace to his planet. A peace that would eventually lead to the Lindor Confederacy.

And of course, Blake never returned.

As he sat at his desk, he struggled to remember a passage of "Julius Caesar" (except for some name changes, it was one work that had scarcely been modified). It seemed to have some relevance. After a few minutes he found it. He read it haltingly aloud, struggling with the ancient words:

_Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort as if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit that could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart's ease while they behold a greater than themselves. And therefore are they very dangerous._

Hours after these ruminations, the man who had inspired them stood before him. Sarkoff tried to take Avon's measure. As a politician he had to be able to do a quick read of anyone and adapt accordingly. Once certain of that measure, the business of serious communication could commence. But there were always exceptions  _He's as difficult as an Auron._

He began with basic diplomacies. The questions on treatment, the offering of drink, the solicitations of well-being. Avon ignored them.

He showed him the trappings of his office, the implications of power that one would be well-advised to cultivate and certainly not to discount. Avon was, well, not impressed.

He talked shop, what the situation was in Lindor, hinting that Avon's presence was nothing short of a catastrophe that could not possibly have a good outcome. Avon couldn't have cared less.

 _Perhaps the traditional methods were not the most efficacious in this instance,_ Sarkoff wearily concluded. So he rethought the matter. What was this stranger before him? In essence a fugitive, a man on the run, who for the moment just happened to be in the guise of a normal citizen of Lindor. A man in a disguise and a dull one at that-a simple gray suit, composed of pants, jacket with no collar, white shirt with razor thin stripes. Merely a humble refugee, not by any measure the terror of the galaxy.  _A man who did not want to be known._

That gave Sarkoff an inspiration. The main office only gave a hint of what Sarkoff had collected over the years. He beckoned Avon to follow him into the adjacent room, his study, his private museum. Avon shrugged and listlessly followed. Sarkoff adjusted the lights and stayed off to the side after he entered the room.  _Two can play the "I'm not impressed" game as easily as one._

But Avon was, in a manner of speaking, impressed. Sarkoff studiously appeared to be directing his attention elsewhere, but he was watching closely. Soon Avon was studying a sealed tray of insects, enthralled.

 _How odd he should select that!_  A storm of memory drenched Sarkoff. For a moment there stood Blake.  _What is the link between them?_  "You appear to have found something of interest," Sarkoff inquired in a loud voice. "If so, it occurs to me that you might have questions."

Quiet Avon slowly put the tray back. Security had guaranteed he was unarmed, but was adamant that this man posed an enormous risk. Sarkoff agreed, but insisted on taking it.  _You too detect the odor of oldness here like a decaying forest. Does any of this funeral home for the past bother you? Are there any ghosts of hells forgotten to nudge you here?_

Avon finally with agonizing slowness faced him. "Your collection is better than I had been informed," he said flatly.

"I am grateful you are impressed." Sarkoff hadn't intended to sound sarcastic, but out it slipped. "Museums and the old things within them hold an irresistible fascination to me. Most people find old things tiresome. That wounds, being one myself."

"This," Sarkoff gestured to the cabinets and display cases around him, "is my private collection. Everything here was fabricated before Vastator; the past that may be lost forever to us."

Sarkoff retrieved the insect display case and gingerly returned it to a cabinet. "Do you recall the story of this room? These artifacts were returned from my prison as a 'goodwill' gesture by the Federation  _(I almost said Servalan')_. I am not sure what my former captors hoped to accomplish by doing so, but it was a rare enough act on their part even now I cannot hold it against them."

And Avon actually said, "I try not to bear grudges myself."

"Good," smiled Sarkoff, "an admirable trait, one of many I have no doubt. Though - forgive me - if one were to listen to the whispers, one might be inclined to think you a dangerous man, or worse, an untrustworthy one. How would you respond to such accusations?"

Avon glanced around.  _A reflex?_  Sarkoff wondered. "You aren't actually seeking my advice?"

"Not directly. Let us say I am comparing strategies. We have both used our respective methods to reach positions of power, and in all honesty, mine no less precarious than yours."

Avon smiled. Sarkoff was chilled.  _Was this what Blake saw in those final moments? Or was he spared by death?_

He pressed the point. "We were addressing your reputation of licentiousness; how well it may have served you-"

"I frame no hypothesis."

"But I insist. Indulge me in such speculation. You are, after all, a  _guest_." The word had an edge.

"Not by design. I am not seeking sanctuary."

Sarkoff frowned. "An accident brought you here? I might have been more persuaded of that had you chosen a less precipitous time. Let's strive to be less cryptic with one another. Why are you here?"

Avon looked bemused. "Bad luck. And something else I try to avoid."

"And what might that be?"

"'Divine intervention.'"

Sarkoff snorted.  _Bad luck? Divine intervention? What could he possibly mean? Are these code phrases for some kind of guilt in the man? Wonders never cease._  "Yet you said not by design."

"Not mine in any event."

"Which leaves us with 'bad luck'. Let me think on that a moment. Do you have an interest in ancient music? I could play one of these," he pulled out a large black disk, "but they are so fragile . . . " he watched Avon closely, "One was actually broken when I was entertaining a visitor, a rude man. Never saw him again . . . "  _No reaction. Perhaps Blake never told him. Perhaps the man truly is psychotic._

Sarkoff returned the disk to its protective vault then moved to another cabinet. Here he pulled out a smaller disk, shiny as foil. "Ah, now these are made of sturdier stuff. The ancients were getting better at it, right up to Vastator in fact. I think you might find it, well, interesting."

He inserted one into the slot in the opening of the machine which accepted it with a swishing sound. The device was clearly antiquated, centuries old in fact, yet appeared to be in perfect working order. Sarkoff adjusted a knob and pressed a button.

"As you know, while we can read most of the language of the ancients, there are many words and phrases which continue to elude us." Sarkoff stepped back, a calm look on his face. A torrent of rage and frustration, senseless, violent as a battle of jackhammers, poured from the speakers.

After a few appalling seconds, he quickly powered off the device.  _Using torture to extract information. How uncivilized!_  "I apologize. Not exactly the point I was trying to make, yet not a bad one in itself. We tend to romanticize the past, but I suspect the time from which this came was not so much more civilized than our own."

 _So much for subterfuge._  He closed in on Avon.  _The man does frighten me_. "My trinkets, my play things if you will, have not been collected simply to impress visitors. I believe the past is never dead. I believe it lives in us to the extent we permit it, or to the extent we are overpowered by it, or to the extent we struggle to deny it. I had some ancient projectile weapons, but I seem to have misplaced them. Very old, yet quite effective. They were a metaphor that the past can kill.

"Tell me, my fugitive friend, the former Lord Avon," it was the first time Sarkoff had said his title, "knowing what you do of the past and the present, what do you see in your future?"

"I don't relish the role of being a bargaining chip."

Sarkoff beamed.  _That answer was very good. We are beginning to talk._  "That, I assure you, will not happen." Avon did not look assured.

"You say little, but there is much in what you do say. 'Divine intervention.' Let's get back to that. I am impressed with your sense of destiny as much as your vanity."

"I struggle to keep a balanced life."

"The effort is admirable. Blake admired you as well."

"He kept his judgments to himself." Avon was at maximum cool. He didn't even blink.

 _He knew that was coming. I_ am  _impressed._  "Really? He certainly was not reluctant in communicating your worth to  _me._  I suspect he was generous in his praise of you to others as well."

"He was known to err on occasion."

"It would seem he made substantial ones. Let us say that I wish to avoid repeating them."

Avon scowled.

 _I'm reaching him!_  Sarkoff continued: "Lindor cannot win against the Federation. Their 'Combined Fleet' outnumbers our defense forces by ten to one. Moreover, I promised my people in my efforts to undermine Servalan I would do everything to avoid conflict. But what would be gained by speeding you on your way? She will likely attack regardless. The mere fact that my government failed to turn you over to Federation authorities at once is sufficient pretext. The problem is only how much worse can I make this? Were there others with you?"

The fact that Avon had been declared "dead," but that Jenna Stannis (Sarkoff couldn't believe  _that_ ) and two others were on the most wanted list had at least raised the possibility that Avon had not acted alone.

Avon looked sly. "There were. Jenna Stannis among them."

" _She_  was with you! And Cally's cloned sister and that Mykal . . . ?"

"'Hodos.' All three of them."

"Where are they?" Sarkoff dreaded the answer.

Avon responded truthfully. "I haven't the slightest idea. As I indicated, 'something' took over the ship as we were making our escape. It directed me here and those three somewhere else-that is, assuming they made it."

"You have your doubts? What took over the ship?"

"I don't know. But I do know  _she's_  afraid of it."

"Servalan? Well, you have gotten me curious. So the exalted President of the Federation is afraid of something. She who could weigh a star system against the life of a single man and give you a terrifyingly precise answer." Sarkoff looked grim. "I am not attempting to weigh you in that balance; you are not on trial for Blake's murder here or any other crime. But I am the elected President of this star system. That requires of me a certain responsibility." Sarkoff thought for a few moments. "My son-in-law is one of my advisors, a man named Lee Hahn. Have you heard of him?"

"Cally spoke of him. He was not a subject of intense discussion after Auron's demise."

"No doubt. The point is that the Auron community, here and throughout the galaxy, has provided me on many occasions with excellent intelligence. Lee Hahn's services to Lindor have been prodigious.  _(Besides there is that other matter I must discuss with him)._  I want your former companions here. I feel they might be valuable to us. Extremely so."

Avon thought of Molli and Mykal, his eyes rolling upwards. "I must advise against getting your hopes up."

Sarkoff was miffed. "Even Jenna?"

"She's a good pilot, excellent in-fighter . . . "

"Yes?"

"Too principled."

"Holds her back?"

"It would seem so. But I gather I have no say in the matter."

Sarkoff now enjoyed himself. "Correct. Now, let's discuss your stay. As the guest of Lindor, I insist on making you comfortable. I will do my best to keep you out of the public eye, though you understand word will get out . . . " Sarkoff stopped.  _This was going to be difficult_. He withdrew, muttering to himself, forgetting Avon for the moment.  _If they are alive, how can I possibly get a message to them?_

He put another disk into the player and this time the music was more agreeable.  _Almost an Auron quality too it. So haunting after all these centuries. Yes, I do believe Ambassador Hahn could give me excellent counsel on this and that_ other _matter._

He turned abruptly to Avon. "Forgive me, I was preoccupied. Despite my power, much is out of my hands. You said 'divine intervention' brought you here? If so, what a cruel divinity it was!"

"Not cruel," replied Avon, "only mistaken."

The Demon Lover

He lived with the realization, common to men married to the daughters of the powerful, that his wife's greatest passion was not for him but for her father ( _or was it her father's power?)_. She was President Sarkoff's daughter far more than she was Lee Hahn's wife, a fact she had made very clear during their marriage, indeed from the time they met. This truth would dictate the terms of their relationship and he would accept it, if he wanted to continue to see her. To this he agreed, for matters of state as well as heart. To her truth, he gave his troth. He did love her; of that he was certain. For Lee Hahn, his wanting her was not mere politics, though politics was unavoidable given the context of their lives. It was more - though he only rarely would permit himself to ponder how much more. Usually, like now, he wondered if he truly wanted to know.

In brief, some years before they had met and in a manner of speaking married. He was only the Auron ambassador of a small and precarious diplomatic mission. She was the most powerful woman on Lindor. Somehow she responded to him, accepted him, forgave his fate and failure, and for a while at least found a place for him in her life. It had not always been so cold between them. Even now, she occasionally communicated a profound empathy for him that was as startling as it was moving.  _Why?_ Perhaps it was the feeling of remoteness that they both felt to the catastrophic events of their times. Perhaps it was their shared admiration for her father. Pity that they rarely discussed these matters as they went about the frantic business of their lives.

He became the husband of Tyce Sarkoff, confidant to her father, and from there leader of the Auron Community in Exile. She respected that power (such as it was and an embarrassment to him in any event). It was said that Tyce respected little beyond power so he was grateful to have given her the illusion.

As a couple, they were at best "mismatched." The Lindor media sneered (as is the role of the media at all times and all places) at them as the "grand alliance", yet surprisingly they found the phrase agreeable. It  _was_  an alliance; for the good of Lindor and the Auronar. For the cause of freedom. It was not such a high price to pay, this marriage to Tyce Sarkoff.

He was loyal to her, despite his unhappiness, despite his knowledge. He defended her and would continue to do so for as long as she would have him as part of her life. For she was the President's daughter, and as such, like Caesar's wife, was above reproach.  _Had to be._

In the bedroom that evening, he had received the summons. Later he would explain how he had not grasped the gravity of what that meant. After all, Sarkoff gave no details. It was only the way it was presented. That should have been enough.

_There had been strange rumors all day. About someone from the highest levels of the Federation seeking asylum in Lindor. And the most terrifying rumor of all was . . ._

Logic denied it could possibly be Avon . . . though the Auron Web sang of it as certain. And the Web rarely erred. But Lee Hahn refused to accept it.

Sarkoff's summons contained something else almost as disturbing. He wanted to talk with Lee about "family matters." For someone who never even gave the appearance of meddling in the personal affairs of those closest to him, that was alarming.  _It could only mean Tyce_. He did not want to speculate. He must not think about it. He must clear his mind.  _Be ready for anything_.

_There will be no keeping my fear from her._

He was startled when she flung the door open, looking for all the world as if the fate of Lindor rested upon her bare shoulders. The shoulders he had no right to touch ( _and so many other men did_ ), but which she gave her indulgence. He stood, forcing the bitterness from him. Though he no longer felt her presence to be the honor it had once been, one could not remain seated in her presence. Even her enemies acknowledged that.

He studied her, his face drained of emotion. "Is something wrong?"

The door closed swiftly behind her. "Something's wrong, all right! My father won't let me in on his little secret; 'too busy' he says, but I've been able to piece together most of it. It's all over the Cabinet."

She sat beside him, distant at first then moving closer. "We need to talk. Before he drags you into this."

He put his arm around her.  _No keeping it from her, but I must be very cautious._ "He already has. I have been summoned."

She looked at him in shock. She was agitated, she could not relax. "Then it's true. Avon is here," she whispered in horror.

Lee tried to reassure her. "The rumors are not yet confirmed. It might be someone else." He looked down.  _It isn't._

She ignored his attempts to comfort. "It's him. It can't be anyone else. We mean nothing to him! He means nothing to us! Lee, we must turn him over to the Federation. At once!"

"I will discuss the options with your father. He may have already decided that."  _She must know whatever decision he makes will be disastrous._

"Not my ever principled father!" She was truly frightened. He had never seen her like this. "My father has good intentions and thoughts and he despises Avon as much as I do, but he will never surrender him! Lee," she took his hand, composing herself. "He will listen to you. Tell him what must be done. It is our only chance!"

He didn't want to get into it.  _What kind of power does she think I have?_ "We need to know more. Let's talk about it when I get back."

He patted her hand and got up to leave. He could only pretend calm or indifference for so long.  _At least she does not suspect the other thing he wants to discuss._

She rushed after him, her look one of abject concern, a plea for bottomless compassion. He dreaded that look. He preferred her fits.

"Lee, I care as much about him as I do Lindor. As I do you. Reason with him. He'd be furious with me if he knew I were acting like this, but damn it, he will listen to you. There must be no sanctuary for Avon!"

It hardly seemed the appropriate time to mention that perhaps there was a conflict of interest here. Forget that it was most premature for Lee, the advisor to Sarkoff, to demand Avon be turned over to the Federation. Avon was a very important figure to the Auronar. The politics of this event demanded prudence above all else.

He nodded slightly.  _I want to reassure her. I wish I could reassure myself._ "I will do my best. You know that."

"Yes, of course."

"Is that enough?"

She gripped his arm. "Lee, promise me."

He looked straight at her. "I promise. I want to know as much as you why Avon is here."  _Why pretend any longer that good might come of this?_

"Thank you, dearest. I'm sorry I am so hard on you. I don't want to be that way. Aurons," she looked rueful, "you're always obsessed with finding the significance of things. I think everything is meaningless."

He sighed.  _Maybe she's right._   _Despair is overcoming us both. At least we now have something in common._  "Maybe it is. But," he smiled as he stroked her hair, "Surely you won't object if I make an effort to understand?"

Her breathing was the only sound as the door dilated behind him. She shrugged, her shoulders glistened like ice.

"No," she said, looking at him intently. "You have a right to."

 

The trip to the House of the President was brief, uneventful. To his unbounded relief no reporters were present at any stage of the journey: that could only mean the rumors were still confined to the highest levels. Perhaps they had a grace period, perhaps even a few weeks.

Inside the House, armed guards (human and robot) ran the usual security checks and he was escorted to the central underground office. A silent Sarkoff rose briefly from his desk, indicated a chair close by. The guards departed and the room was sealed.

It seemed to Lee, the President was almost jovial, yet erratic in a way that was unlike this most steady of men. "Aurons," the President said, his voice loud. Lee glanced to the monitor behind Sarkoff, the Lindor night deep upon them. Sarkoff would get to the point soon enough.

"Why are you so much better at coping with the terrors of life than us humans? Your creativity, your learning, have enriched our lives and civilization immeasurably . . . how could a people as gifted as yourselves been seduced by the likes of Avon?"

 _So it was true._ _My God._  Lee struggled to not let a single gesture betray his terror. "I try never to speak for my people. I can only say our experience with him has been somewhat more 'encouraging' than yours. We are not fools regarding the man," Lee forced a smile, "however, we have reasons for forbearance."

Sarkoff nodded gravely. "I have taken every security precaution to prevent knowledge of this event from reaching the outside, but I might as well climb to the roof and shout the news. Avon  _is_  here. I do not trust him, but," he looked pointedly at Lee, "since when did that stop a politician?"

"May I ask what do you plan to do?"

"For now, get some answers. Not easy-the bastard is coy and smart. You would think he had us all in his pocket-that we are the ones who are in no position to do anything except beg! Lee," he looked directly into the eyes of his son-in-law as he leaned over his desk, "forget the fact that I can and often enough do pull rank on you. Forget your oath to your people, forget also that you are married to my daughter, for which I offer my profoundest sympathy. Tell me everything you know. Avon said that he was 'guided' here. I kept getting hints that there is something that is interfering in the galactic affairs. What is 'it'? What does 'it' want?"

Lee felt like he had been hit in the stomach. He was panicking These questions caught him completely off guard.

"Damn it Lee, I must know. The Federation has all the pretext it needs to humiliate, perhaps destroy, Lindor. I'm sorry if this places your allegiance to your people in jeopardy, but if there is anything that can help, for God's sake tell me!"

Lee swallowed. "Forgive me. I forgot myself. The strictures of the oath can be relaxed in certain emergencies." His control was slipping. He sounded embarrassingly nervous.  _I have already failed my people_. "This is obviously one." He struggled to put his thoughts in order.

"There have been rumors for years of, as you say, 'something,' an entity or perhaps ensemble of entities acting as one, of immense power. Little is known about it, though we believe its origins were at the close of the First Federation ( _over four centuries ago . . ._ ). We believe, this entity is the product of a breakthrough in machine intelligence our science has been unable to duplicate; of thought processing on the order of at least ten million times greater than the best human or Auron mind."

He let that sink in. "It is not an evil force. In many respects, it wants nothing more than to do what is right. Yet it is remarkably naive in many respects. It shares the difficulty we all have of, if you wish, of calculating good against evil, particularly in complex situations, and from those calculations, act wisely. In some ways, it is, well,  _timid_."

Lee was apologetic. "It has made mistakes; done harm. We know at one point it became silent for several years as a result of a mistake. Then it contacted Molli, Cally's third sister-no one knows why."

"Very well, _where_  is it?"

"Seeing that Cally died on 'Terminal'-an artificial planet, it's hard to explain-and that it must have access to her 'pattern' to have been able to communicate with Molli, presumably that is where it 'lives.'"

"I don't pretend to understand any of this. Why did it send Avon here?"

" _If_  it did. It may be using Avon as a probe; a test for us. It wants to know more about us and presumably Avon before it acts." He shrugged.

Sarkoff considered it. "Does it grasp the danger in has put us in?"

Lee nodded slowly. "I believe it does. Optimistically, that means it has a solution."

Sarkoff was increasingly skeptical. "Perhaps it should be reminded in the spirit of pessimism that a solution is needed very soon! Avon was certainly not aware of any such 'remedy.'"

"Then the 'remedy ( _if there is one_ ) might reside with Molli and her companions. They are the missing elements."

Sarkoff slammed his palm on the desk. "So they are alive! Then I want Jenna, Molli, and this Mykal here!" He leaned over. "Tell me how to do it."

Lee looked distraught feeling the full force of Sarkoff's emotions. It occurred to him just then that the source of Sarkoff's agitation must be more than Avon.  _Tyce._ "To contact them through Molli, the Entity has to provide a carrier, if the message is to reach her through the Web . . . " Lee's voiced slowed.

"I gather there is a problem?" asked Sarkoff.

"The Entity has been silent since Servalan's attack on Navy Group Omega."

For a moment Sarkoff anguished. "Is this another test?"

"It seems likely."

"Very well, let's for the moment assume that our three wandering heroes are alive."

"It is a workable assumption, seeing that Avon is."

"I'll try not to comment on that. Continuing: the last thing we want is the Galaxy beating a path to Lindor. We need to reach Jenna, Molli, and whoever, with a clear urgent message and yet not attract attention. Let's assume the Auron Web is not up to it. Ideas?"

"A coded message?"

"Well, yes, but subtle, brief. Something Molli and her friends might conceivably be looking for."

"Something consistent with what the Entity might do?"

"Yes. Can you think like that thing?"

Flames of thought flickered over the ambassador's face. Perhaps the question was facetious but there might be something to it. The Entity's methods of communication were not the clearest. Among its more exasperating traits was its penchant for word play. Language seemed to fascinate it, delight it . . . _it likes puns, acrostics, palindromes, that sort of thing. Molli and presumably Jenna would know the style all too well._

After a few minutes, Sarkoff cleared his throat. "Do you have any ideas, Mr. Hahn. You seem on the verge of saying something."

"There is a possibility."

"This is your President speaking. Don't keep me in suspense. Let's hear it."

"It loves word play, like acrostics." Sarkoff looked puzzled for a moment then he slowly nodded in understanding. "Go on."

"If you could work one into a public address that would spell out something simple like 'Avon is here, come Jenna' and broadcast it repeatedly - the Galaxy is paying very close attention to your reelection campaign - Molli and the others might be looking for such a hidden message." He shrugged, embarrassed.  _It was a longshot._  "It's worth a try."

Sarkoff looked doubtful, then resigned. "I'm tempted to tell you to go home and think harder but," he quickly added, "I'm desperate and you might be on to something. You are no doubt aware of my speech tomorrow, one my late lamented campaign staff had billed as 'major.' I think the new staff with Tyce's encouragement could raise the volume of publicity even higher. 'Avon is here, come Jenna.' No subtlety in that."

Lee already had misgivings about his idea. "Remember, acrostics are sometimes extremely subtle in their construction, especially if they have to be integrated within a larger text."

Sarkoff brushed the objection aside. He knew that. Yet, he was certain he could come up with something. "Lee, I was a teacher of rhetoric and poetry before I became corrupted by politics. I am up to it. Besides, the speech needed a rewrite anyway."

Lee rose. "Is that all you will be needing me for?"

Sarkoff motioned him back down, his expression pained. "No, there is another matter, my counselor and ally. Forget universal doom for a moment; this is almost as important. There have been loud whispers about my daughter's 'personal' life. I have tried to avoid intruding into this, because I do respect her and your privacy, but the situation is getting out of hand. The opposition is starting to use the rumors. I can no longer ignore it."

Lee answered hesitantly. "She and I have discussed the matter, rather obliquely. She has offered me my freedom, in marriage or out. I do not know what to make of the offer. It means nothing to me. No more than our marriage apparently means to her. I keep hoping a break will not be necessary."

Sarkoff looked down.  _I wonder if they deal with reality any better than we do._ "Do you object if I talk with her regarding this? Believe me, I find this as distasteful as your must. If there is any consolation to you, I do not hold you to blame."

"I feel I have no say in the matter. And obviously no control over it. That gives me, I suppose, a certain freedom as she is wont to say. You have my permission to talk with her on anything you please."

Sarkoff nodded as if sentence had been passed on him.  _He didn't sound happy giving that permission_.  _Can anyone blame him?_

Lee got up from the chair, the vigor of his movements indicating he would hear no more.  _I_ have _offended him._ "I am prepared to endure whatever is decided so that your administration may prevail. You have always been a friend to the Auronar and myself. Lindor comes first."

 _No, that is not true_. Sarkoff's look was one of profound sympathy. "Thank you for hearing me on this. Tell her I must to see her tonight."

Lee nodded and quickly left.

 

"You have no right!"

Tyce screamed at her father. The sheer intensity of it was shocking. Few people he knew were more tightly under control than Tyce. For her to break meant things must be far worse than he realized. He hated himself for doing this, but the matter had to be pursued. It was family as much as politics.

"Tyce, calm yourself. 'Right' has nothing to do with this. You are my de-facto campaign manager, as well as my daughter. I cannot permit you to become an embarrassment to this administration. We have always been a team. I need to know: whose side are you on?"

Her fury subsided slightly. "I am on your side," she said firmly. "I've always been on your side. But this is none of your business. It's none of  _their_ business either."

"Don't be naive," he chided. "They make everything their business! You of all people should know that. Would we be any different if the situation were reversed? That is how privilege is protected and power extended. My concern is: are you going to help them?"

"That's unfair! I hate them. I would do anything for you. Damn you, it's your last campaign! I've always been beside you."

He shook his head. In some ways reaching Avon had been easier. "You are not helping me now, Tyce. The rumors are old; I accept that you have been more 'discreet' of late, but lesser rumors have brought down greater people. I cannot permit your personal life to defeat me, certainly not now."

She shrugged defiantly. "Nobody believes them."

 _I do. So does your husband._  "Nobody has to 'believe' them. All they have to do is feel the accusations fit the person; that you would be the kind of person who would do such things. You will then have lost all credibility with the populace."

She said nothing; refused to look at him. "Tyce, I need Lee as much as I need you. Is there anything I can do to help?" She shook her head. "I mean it. I will not ignore this any longer. Things are getting out of hand. I cannot permit those closest to me to destroy themselves."

Her mind raced.  _It's true. Avon is here._ She took a deep breath, regaining control. She struggled to speak precisely. "I have needs of my own, father. Lee is a fine man; I respect him. I do love him. He is a much better person than me. But I don't care!"

"This kind of behavior is sometimes associated with feelings of hopelessness and inferiority. That is hardly the woman I know."

"You're not my analyst!"

"True. Which raises an obvious question: have you been seeing one? It would be a risk, but I would approve of you're going."

"There's nothing about me I want to change! I am perfectly happy with the way I am. Can't you understand that?"

He looked down at his desk. "I was only offering support. Perhaps some aspect of me wants to be assured that I was not a cause."

"You have nothing to do with it! Only a coward blames others for their actions. I despise them!"

"Our opponents?"

"All of them. Their nauseating servility; their air of smug moral superiority. They care nothing for Lindor. They only want to rule."

He nodded gravely. "Which is my point exactly. But I do not plan on being defeated so easily. The polls are not that bad. Why are you giving up?"

"You should be. If not on election day, then very soon." She moved closer to him and played her trump. "Avon is here, isn't he? And the Federation is coming to retrieve him. It's that simple. One way or another, we're finished."

He looked at her closely. "I can understand your fear. Thousands of our citizens are fleeing Lindor daily. But it seems to me you gave up long ago. Why? Does defeat terrify you so?"

She relaxed, taking a seat distant from him. "May be," she sounded terribly tired.

"I am sorry. I warned you. You knew the odds. I thought you accepted them. We all die in the end."

She shook her head. "I don't blame you. You did all you could. For Lindor, and for me. I'm sorry I have been such a failure to you."

He risked coming over and put his hand gently on her shoulder. "I won't give up. You helped me once when I was weak; let me help you - and Lee. He truly loves you. You need each other. You have hurt him deeply." He sat beside her. "All that I am asking is that you exercise prudence. Give each other a chance. Be seen in public with him. You know what I mean. Maybe something can be worked out."

She smiled, her voice airy and light. "Public prudence along with a proper dose of private chastity. What a bore! I honestly did not want to hurt you or Lee. My unhappiness does not spring from either of you. I may have been born to be unhappy, no matter what life gave me."

"Do you love your husband?"

She looked away. "Yes. But my passions are elsewhere. I wondered from the start if our marriage would work. There was never much hope, though I did try. So did Lee - I admit much more than myself." She turned to him. "What difference does it make now?"

"You mean with Avon here?"

"Father, why?!" she tore herself out of the chair. "He's death wherever he goes. Send him away! She may believe you had nothing to do with it. Everything we built might be spared."

 _I respect your fear. Always believe that._  "I won't do that. I promised him he would not be a bargaining chip and I meant it. Avon is not seeking asylum, Tyce. He was brought here, even he does not know how or why."

Tyce was disgusted. "You're not making sense! Do you actually believe what he tells you? No doubt my dear Auron husband does as well. Always looking for the golden purpose under all the garbage of existence! I know you trust Lee- _I_ trust Lee-naive as he is at times, but why Avon? I thought you hated 'the man who killed Blake' as much as I do?"

Sarkoff tried again. He had his severe doubts as well. "It's not that I hate him less or trust him more. It's just that I am beginning to understand the irrelevance of hatred. It is more vital I understand why he is here and what it means. I did speak with Lee regarding this. Tomorrow evening I will broadcast a coded message to Jenna Stannis and her companions." He noted her surprise. "Yes, I believe them to be alive." Then he saw the look of terror. "Don't be alarmed. The odds are remote our Federation friends will be looking for this form of message."

"You truly believe they are alive?" She asked, incredulous. "They were last seen with Avon. It's rather unlikely."

He attempted a smile. "As you know, I never respond to hypotheticals. Avon says they are almost certainly alive. On this, I do believe him. And according to Lee they may be able to help. If not," he sighed, "we are no worse off than we are now." He put his hand on hers. "Tyce, I need your support. I need it in so many ways. Will you stand by me for just a few more weeks? After that . . . "

"After that it won't matter. Father," she was near tears, "I can't do much more. I want out. I have booked passage to leave Lindor after the election. I'm leaving Lee and you. It'll be my only chance."

"Does he know?"

"I plan to tell him shortly. I've hinted as much already."

Sarkoff was motionless. "He is a very insightful man. He will have guessed by now. Thank you, Tyce, for telling me the truth. I believe all three of us would agree there would be no point in your staying if war comes. I wish you the best."

"No regrets, Father?"

"I'm sure there is much I will regret. I already do." Sarkoff was suddenly stern. "Lee has done nothing to deserve the contempt with which you have treated him."

She glared back at him, then nodded wearily. "I am sorry for treating him badly. But that's not the reason you want me to be brave and stay, is it?"

"No. Tell me the reason," he smiled sadly.

"Because I am President Sarkoff's daughter."

"Excellent answer. One I never tire of hearing."

He glanced at the time. "I am tired. I suspect you are as well. And I need to work on my speech. We won't discuss this again." He looked at her sadly. "Try not to live each day as if you were going to die tomorrow."

"But we are, father, we are," and she stormed out the room.

 

Sarkoff worked late into the night, forging beyond exhaustion, struggling past despair, working and reworking his speech so that the message, the cry for help could be found within it. He could blot Tyce's rage from his mind, but Lee's caution was not so easily ignored: this was not going to be easy. He needed inspiration. He wanted to ask Lee, but he had already asked too much of the man. Nor dare he ask his staff writers to assist. To wrap the wordplay in the unassuming text, to make it a gift of radiant meaning for the people who would open it . . . despite a magnificent facility with words, it would not come. The dull, safe text forbade it.

Well past midnight, he realized he would have to change the entire direction of the speech if the message were to be encoded. This was the one amusing thing that had happened to him all day. What if he were to incorporate a reference to his recent veto of the education bill-the horror to his advisors, not to mention Tyce? Reminding the electorate of that most unpopular action in a major speech seemed nothing less than political suicide. But he was stuck. The message had to get out. By luck, the vetoed bill would be the perfect vehicle to do it.

Such irony! The remnants of Blake's Seven were once again prodding him to courage. Sarkoff revised the speech, casting all caution aside. Now it worked. As morning came, he felt the speech was as it was meant to be, as it should have been.

He took a nap at dawn, then met with his vice-President and advisors for a late breakfast. Near noon, he was rushed to the airport to be joined by his daughter and her husband. They greeted him respectfully, both noting silently that he seemed unusually chipper. He took Lee aside as Tyce went ahead. The message problem had been solved, he told Lee. And of course no one alluded to what had transpired the night before.

To Avon, to Jenna and the others, he gave a silent thanks as he boarded the transport for the evening campaign rally. Here he was with the two most important people in his life. Despite everything, he never felt more powerful, more needed. He had a sound nap on the flight.

 

. . . Once, early in his political career, he had made a fundamental mistake. An earnest, youthful, sincere and dare we say duller Sarkoff had set out to appeal to the mind of the public, not its basest emotions. He concentrated his energies on well-thought out speeches in his personal appearances during the day-fine, but he came across as uncomfortable, remote, and uninspired. His reasoning was arcane, passionless. Audiences nodded off.

It was Tyce who orchestrated the cure. An actress, she "persuaded" him, ran right over him is a better way to put it, that he must learn to perform, to project an image, to appeal to the emotions, if he were ever to reach the minds of the people. In truth, he had that most tragic of political flaws: shyness. It had to be overcome, or it was back to teaching.

Fortunately, there was a cure, a whole series of them according to Tyce. Clothes were one. They made the politician if not the man. So he wore a cape, let his hair grown longer, took to cultivating some tasteful eccentricities, let the public in on the secrets as if to say they were all his special friends. His broad brimmed black hat became his personal trademark and when he waved it audiences were certain to respond.

It was not quite kissing babies, but it was close.

His career improved dramatically. He stopped losing elections. He made for himself a reputation as a man close to the voters; as a man who could make an honest deal. A good man, though not impossibly so. Bend the rules, maybe, but his principles would never evanesce. It was the beginning of a remarkable lifetime performance.

He never made a public address now unless it was before an audience guaranteed larger than his opposition could assemble. Large audience are not easily gained, but after a while even his opponents couldn't resist the show. Politics, as Tyce had shown, may not be theater, but it certainly is theatrical. Naturally, it is difficult to convey subtle and principled thoughts to a well-oiled crowd of a couple hundred thousand in a sports arena, but Sarkoff was a master of language. He had started his career as a language teacher and he was unequaled in his ability to craft a phrase, pithy or windy or verbose or . . . Yet in this final campaign, one gaff could be fatal. And a brilliant speech might barely make a dent. Much more practical to pass a few public goody bills (paid for by said public) and hope for the best.

Sarkoff felt the transport buffet as it came in to land. He awoke, confident still.

On this particular night, when every advisor assured him it was an unacceptable risk, he nevertheless decided to pull out all the stops. A huge stadium had been procured and was packed with supporters (and anyone else who happened to be wandering in the neighborhood). The crowd was almost friendly.

His heli-porter from the airport landed in the center of the stadium. Swatches of light (in the colors of Lindor's banner) washed over him and his entourage then swept out to the stands. Out he stepped before the cameras with a beaming smile. It was only mildly daunting that this address would be broadcast live throughout the breadth of the Lindor Confederacy.

His entourage, including his daughter and son-in-law, followed. And as Tyce had insisted, the singer who never failed to curl his ears greeted him with a warm embrace.  _Why had I ever given up teaching?_

Audacity was in the air. He removed his hat and waved it and bowed, then put it firmly back on. The throng was disappointed. Then he took the hand of said popular singer and raised it. That worked better. He glanced over to his daughter who smiled confidently at him  _{We'll see how long that lasts)._

The singer assumed the center of the stage, and Sarkoff, like an eager fan, sat down with all the thousands to enjoy the show (he would have brought ear plugs, but it would have been questionable practice to insert them here).

How much would he be willing to risk? He glanced to the other side at Lee. Lee was not smiling.  _I risk everything tonight. He knows that. But there is no longer any other option._

The anthem completed, Sarkoff waited for the cheering to subside (it took a while) before rising to the platform. He walked slowly to the podium, his security personnel watching. He waved to his aides, then to the crowd as the cheering rose again. He would not look back.

With a flourish, he removed his hat, waved it as a banner of triumph and tossed it before him. The crowd roared.  _They never tire of this. They love to think that a romantic gesture will always carry the day. Well, so do I. But I lose more hats that way._

He waited for quiet, acknowledging them gratefully. The din gradually subsided. The stadium lights seemed to become brighter, hotter.

He began his speech calmly, his words deliberate with measured cadence. No reverberating echo must disturb what he was saying. He was addressing an enormous crowd, but to the people watching at home he was speaking to each of them as individuals.

He moved towards the issue, the crux of the speech, ever so cautiously. His voice betrayed nothing. Let them call me a reactionary, he said. I am as aware of political dangers as they. But, the business of compromise and deals can dilute principles only so far.  _Forgive me, Tyce ._

The struggle to keep Lindor out of Federation conflicts, a sure pretext for intervention by the colossus, remained his highest priority. He was never a bellicose man, this he assured them.

But there was another matter of import and he needed to address it. A bill ill-considered and ill-intentioned had almost been forced upon the people by his unworthy opponents. These dreadful and boorish people (not a direct quote, but close enough) seemed to sense weakness. They needed to be reminded in the most forceful terms the degree to which they had misjudged. He knew what they were up to-masquerading as an education bill, this badly disguised monstrosity was yet another "unqualified intellectuals full employment act;" a tax cow and a tear bucket, born of cynicism and power lust, an act of demagoguery nothing more. He felt no shame whatever in vetoing it. They had tried to back him against the wall. They had asked for it. This night, for once, they were going to get it. With no room to maneuver, he, your President for so many years, had sent the bill down to defeat. In response, these people had chosen not only to slander him, but his family as well. That was intolerable.

He sounded sad. Were they no better than this? He had truly tried to ignored the turpitude of the opposition, but it would be shameful to do so now. In the context of a galactic crisis, reasonable people would think the opposition might have more vital matters to consider.

These were not cavils on his part. He believed with all his conviction that mixing state power with education was dangerous. Power once unleashed could not be contained except by a greater power, and power was ever a temptation to the reckless and irresponsible. The Federation was proof. Against government might, the fragile complex of education was too weak.

(The applause was encouraging, though somewhat restrained.)

He paused. Silently, he gave a final ironic thanks to the man who had inadvertently pushed him to this moment.

His opponents were the "demon lovers." Sarkoff slammed his palm against the podium and the sound was like a thunderclap. They would give away what is most precious and valuable for an illusion. With chilling detail he listed each of their irredeemable shortcomings, everything from fiscal irresponsibility to infrequent bathing.

And with as stentorian and as grave a tone as he could muster, he concluded:  _"Whether justice is a value or not; is supreme, honored, eternal, right-is entirely contingent on man's enlightenment. Justice endures. No, not as a gift of God or the State, but as an unending struggle of each individual for knowledge and truth."_

The speech concluded, he stepped back. His daughter looked stunned yet somehow managed to rush up and embrace him. Her husband was able to get to him to shake his hand, his face as unhappy as ever. Sarkoff grinned as if to say:  _listen to the cheering and applause that never stops. Listen, for this is my life._

The balloons and streamers soared upward, fusing into a geyser of exuberance as the glare of the stadium lights went chasing after them, on and on into the night. Soon he could see nothing above him except color and foil, a cascade of free stars, tumbling out of reach. He kept looking up; people kept shouting at him. He could hardly hear; thought ceased, emotion swept everything before him. The noise spigot turned up full. There was joy here in the pulse and push of people, was there not? Why had he never understood it?  _Mine is the life of their epoch. How I pity them._

INTERLUDE: NOTES TO A HISTORY

Time flows and in that slippery metaphor is a statement of continuity, hope, and occasionally progress. For we cannot think of a river without there being a desire, a longing, to thrust oneself into those shining waters and achieve redemption. At least some might think so.

Shortly after Sarkoff's speech (a minor historical datum to be noted, but that is my role), he defied the odds and won reelection, if narrowly. It was said experts were confounded, and perhaps they were (else why would they be experts?), but I find the result unsurprising. Sarkoff the wise, the valiant, was the one man who encompassed all of Lindor's two century struggle to remain a democracy . . . so who else could now be entrusted to keep it out of a war it could not possibly win, and simultaneously preserve the dignity, not to mention the existence, of all he had built. The challenge was reserved for him, and the majority, however slim, of voters would not deprive him of it.

I mentioned hope. Sarkoff's subtly hidden call for help in the speech had been heard. "Jenna's Two"-I would have advised against the designate but I was not in a position to advise on anything at the time - along with the 5000 preteen inhabitants of New Auron, were racing to Lindor. Try not to laugh. Let doom now near in the dismal continence and dark eye of Avon's lover - the tattered remnants of Blake's 7 never submit! Had I been aware at the time, I would have cheered them on. Even Avon. In their effort they made it all worthwhile.

\-- V. R.

 

 

 

The Craving to be Right

As the planet Lindor slowly enlarged on the screen before her, and the winking status indicators reminded her of the nature of the escort that planet had provided, fugitive Jenna Stannis brushed back her hair and allowed the depression that had so briefly receded from her during the voyage from New Auron to return.  _This is not the end of the journey: this is the end of the line._

Loneliness for once was not a factor. Li, the being who was half Cally and half her sister Molli, stood slightly behind her, ignoring the bright blue globe of Lindor and calmly watching her friend. Despite her air of preoccupation, Jenna was aware, uncomfortably, of Li's concern. To Jenna, Aurons had never warranted their reputation for subtlety and Li annoyed her more than she wanted to admit,  _but give her this: annoyance can be a painkiller to the disease of despair._

Nor was boredom a factor. She was hardly lacking in things to do. In fact, Jenna turned quickly to Li and said in as casual a manner was possible: "I want you to assist Franton. Getting the children off the ship might even be more difficult than getting them on. And prying Franton away from them afterwards to  _assist_  us in our mission of persuasion even more so."

//Understood,// telesent Li, and Jenna groaned.

So there you have it. Bringing the children of Auron to Lindor was an undeniably heroic act, but she wanted nothing more to do with heroism. Never one to celebrate past victories, she could not escape the thought:  _It was an act of futility. The first thing Avon said to me when we first met was the word "Nothing." Now, maybe I know what he meant._

Aloud, she continued: "The Lindor authorities are going to have a lot of questions. Pass the word that I want everyone to keep their mouths shut. I don't want the 'Lindorites'  _(Lindorians?)_  to have the slightest clue as to what we have brought with us."  _Not that they would have the slightest comprehension if they did._

Suddenly the signal for an incoming communication went off. Lindor disappeared from the monitor and a severe face of graying female officialdom replaced it. "Starship  _Sword of Auron_ ," her lips curled around the name, "you will assume a stationary orbit until proper disposition of your vessel and cargo can be arranged. Coordinates will follow promptly upon confirmation of your identity, destination, purpose . . . " She went on for a bit.

Jenna was prepared and resigned.  _Now the fun begins_. "I'll handle this," she whispered to Li, who nodded and left.  _She looks so pale. Is it that ongoing business with Mykal or something else?_  "I eagerly await the opportunity to answer any questions you may have."  _Ha!_ Jenna struggled to assume an innocent pose.

"Am I to take it that you are in charge of this vessel?"

"That is correct."

"Your ship is of a most unusual design. What is its origin?"

 _Damn! I have to lie from the start._  "It's a derelict," she responded cordially. "We found it adrift. We think it may be from the System."

Her interrogator half-laughed, half-cackled. "You'll have to do better than that! Name and planet of origin," she demanded.

Jenna pursed her lips. Of all the planets she had never wanted to return to, Lindor was certainly in the top ten. So naturally it followed . . .

"Jenna Stannis. Earth." She sounded politely bored.

"Full name, please!"

"Jenna.  _Marie_. Stannis." She hated her middle name.

Her interrogator scowled but said nothing.  _She doesn't believe that either. Gee, I wonder why._ "Purpose for entering the Lindor Confederacy?"

 _That was simple enough._ "I and my companions were summoned by President Sarkoff."

That caught her attention. She looked at Jenna closely for several moments. "I'm afraid I do not understand what you said. Will you please repeat and elaborate upon that last remark."

Jenna beamed compliance. "President Sarkoff summoned us. We do not know the reason - the message was rather curt. Nevertheless, we are here."

"Your story is preposterous. You should know that President Sarkoff is an an extremely busy man who never engages in chicanery."

"I am unaware of President Sarkoff's policies or habits."  _Perhaps just this once he couldn't even confide in you about them._

Her face turned red. "I could order you deported at once!"

Jenna had had it and glared right back. "Let me put it this way. Your superiors at some level must know of his action. I strongly suggest you inform his immediate subordinates at once ( _or before not too many orbits you might find yourself assigned to a stratosphere beat)._ "

"You might find yourself in very serious trouble!"

"Your President is waiting," she responded coolly.

Her interrogator paused then said icily. "I warn you,  _Jenna Marie Stannis,_  or whatever other aliases you possess. If I discover you are lying, and I'm confident I will, you and your companions will have a great deal to answer for!" The screen snapped off.

Jenna had truly not wanted to antagonize anyone on her host planet. Everyone on this ship and a good deal more besides were depending on her.  _Blake would have done better._  Or would he? Not much in the way of consolation either way. Still she felt some fight in her returning and that was good.

She watched the monitors as the orbital coordinates were relayed into the flight computer.  _At least they asked questions first._

She sat with a sighing sound in the couch, feeling a sense of accomplishment, however strained.  _Maybe I actually inspired one of their ilk to do something for a change_.

 

At this time, let us leave Jenna and check the status of Li and Mykal. To begin with "Li". Our heroine was in a state of deep worry, and it was more than her anxieties about Jenna. Her mixed state of consciousness was still in the most fragile of equilibriums. Though the sisters had achieved a working relationship after the initial joy of discovering both were alive, both realized their separateness could not endure. Neither could the joy. At some point a new persona must emerge with unknown effect on their mutual memory and identities. Each could not help but fear the worst, so nothing was said regarding it. Indeed, how could one say goodbye in circumstances that sounded more comic than tragic?

Li had other problems as well. For one, there was the guilt of holding out on her companions. They should have been given the news; told who was alive on Terminal, even if there was not the slightest inkling of how that state of affairs could possibly be. Li waited for the precisely correct moment to spill it, and of course we all know how that goes . . .

There was also the overwhelming question of Molli's (Cally wanted nothing to do with this) relationship with both Avon. And Mykal. Molli was torn in conflicting emotions. She was hurt that Mykal was avoiding her, but she sensed that much of it was the understandable result of the unpleasant business on Kaarn. That was bad enough, though understandable.

But Avon . . . She had to talk with the man and soon. It was not her nature to be confrontational, but was there any other way this time? So she waited again for the perfect moment and time was running out . . .

As for Mykal, he was unhappy enough that Li seemed to be avoiding him. Franton however was even worse - she got terribly upset and tearful whenever she saw him, as if that somehow helped matters. Finally they had stopped talking and avoided each other altogether.

Of the four of them, it can be said that Mykal was the most grateful to be at Lindor. He had never been to the Federation's sole remaining democratic star system and something about it seemed to offer at least the opportunity to free himself from the shattering events of the last year. Thousands of lightyears from the Center, this oddest of planetary societies was a good place to recover. Maybe even to think.

But think about what? Unfocused curiously can be both frustrating and dangerous. When Mykal did have a focus, it was the same as Molly, the same as Jennas: Avon. Avon remained his obsession, though let it be said he was willing to consider finding a new one. Along with a new life; and who knows? Maybe even a new love.

And to all four of them, there was always the unspoken matter of how Lindor would react to the extraordinary gift "Jenna's Two" had brought and what the implications might hold for the future. He did not know where to begin on that one.

Thus he told himself he was on another intelligence mission, an assertion not altogether outside the bounds of reason - which is why Jenna tolerated it. It should be noted that the Lindor planetary communication system offered so many channels of information, all linked and electronically cross-referenced, that a determined individual could follow the trails of information space endlessly, and come up with some remarkable discoveries. This was heaven for Mykal, for Mykal could be very determined.

Along with Lindor's interlocking databases and networks, he had also been scanning FNN, the notorious Federation News Network. As a matter of principle he boycotted FNN, but on occasion it was as unavoidable as it was unendurable. There was something hypnotically awful about its relentless emotionalism masquerading as news. FNN seemed to delight in taking any situation and putting it in the grimmest possible melodramatic light. Mykal could only conclude that if the population of the galaxy had developed an insatiable appetite for FNN's product, that was probably the best indicator going that the last days were near. Currently every few minutes there was a bulletin, always proceeded by doom music and an image of a disintegrating Galaxy, invariably implying the next Vastator was due any second now and only by trusting in Servalan and her minions could the end be postponed.

 _Disgusting!_  The "news" was something every sentient being in the universe was fully aware of yet it was always delivered in a tone of informing an abjectly ignorant audience, one eternally in gratitude for every crumb of information dropped on them by their masters.

He could not watch it without being led down a dark spiral of hopelessness, despair, and guilt. Little wonder he thought of Avon. You had to be at least part Avon to stomach this rot. At this particular moment one FNN report had caught his eye. It was on the three fugitives: Jenna, Li and, yes, himself (the official line still being that Avon was dead-though irresponsible "Avon sightings" persisted).  _It was all Federation propaganda, wasn't it? I am innocent, aren't I?_

The report implied that while all would merit and soon meet a grim fate. Indeed, no punishment was too severe for Mykal Hodos, arch Auron criminal and traitor.

_They had to be talking about someone else._

His data search might have remained purely academic, as Mykal's pursuits were prone to be, had it not happened that while studying the career of President Sarkoff  _(rescued by Blake and Cally!)_  and the Auron ambassador Lee Hahn, that he came across and became intrigued by Sarkoff's daughter, Tyce. It was somewhat prurient curiosity to be frank- _what a source of sordid rumors she was_ \- and Mykal was genuinely, if briefly, shocked. He had to find out more.

(Once, having left the door open, he glanced up to see Li standing in the hallway. She gave him a look of disappointment and irritation wrapped in all manner of unhappiness. Mykal sighed and said nothing, as guilt quickly summoned its close companion misery. He had had enough of that from Franton. He assumed the pose of being intently at work. Eventually she left.)

_It should be possible to meet this Tyce. After all, they had been summoned to Lindor by her Father-_

"MYKAL! LI!" the intercom snapped at him. He jumped and was at once at full attention.  _Jenna!_ Was she put out with him, again?

He responded at once. "Here. Sorry."

"Report to the Bridge. Things are starting to happen."

 

" . . . as I was saying," she was speaking to them now. "I have news, good in a manner of speaking. Not long after my chat with Lindor officialdom, I was speaking with President Sarkoff himself. In short, somewhere, someone believed me. We will be landing on Lindor today and we have an appointment with Sarkoff himself at noon local time."

Both took it somberly.  _Good._  Jenna continued. "I will inform Franton shortly. Clearly, we will need her when we meet with Sarkoff, but as you know her mind is elsewhere these days." There was childish shrieking in the corridor to underscore her point. "In any event, she knows more than anyone what this technology can do, but in a pinch I expect you," she eyed Mykal, "and Li to back me up. Are you up to it?"

There was vigorous nodding. Mykal was determined to meet his responsibilities. He found himself in rare agreement with FNN: he would accept notoriety and live with it. Of course, he had never wanted fame either. The thought of ghastly people pawing after him as a status object at worst or a criminal at best was terrifying.  _Of course, it might be a great way to meet girls._

 _Forget New Auron, Li, Avon, Tyce_. . . Wasn't worrying about whether one was going to be alive the next day enough? Philosophers spoke of the futility of the unexamined life, but why bother if there was not going to be any time to do so? Standing by Li, he wondered now what was the point to anything. Maybe moment to moment living, which he had always despised, was not so bad after all. Maybe Li and he could go off together someday, but one look at Li told him the "Molli" he had wanted so deeply was as good as gone. He shook his head as he returned to his cabin.

Jenna watched as they went back silently to their separate quarters.  _Still not speaking to each other._

 

Later, scanning the local news, Mykal came across a particularly good picture of Tyce and was lost in wonder again.  _What a knockout._

Li walking by, looking inside his room, noticed his frozen attention to Tyce's image.

//Sis, I think he's found a new love.//

//Cally, drop it.//

//Not a chance. Anyway, why do you care?//

//I need to talk with him. You have a problem with that?//

//Look, even I was in love once.//

//I have to talk with  _him_  too.//

 

Next morning Mykal was a man with a mission once more. Through the Sarkoff family he would learn about the politics of democracies. Rebellion, he realized, was more than chases, adventures, and wild parties. Except for the occasion shoot-em-up, it was more politics than anything else. Politics hellishly complicated and thoroughly depressing. Was there any romance in defiance? If there was, the Sarkoffs, particularly Tyce, would be a good bet to have the answer.  _Better answers than I'll ever get from the remnants of Blake's Seven._

 

The man and woman faced each other in the dim light, he looking very tired, she very much on edge. She was trying to tell him something, a request he thought, one he was determined to refuse whatever it was. Yet he knew he could not hold out much longer. She would win. He resented it, but resentment to such a degree was a sin.  _If only this were to be her final victory._

"Lee, give me this, please. It's a minor request. I won't dishonor you further."

"I do not like the idea. What more do I have to say?"

"Why?"

"You know why."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry you distrust me so much."

"I regret that I do as well. But why should either of us worry. You'll get your way."

"Yes, I will, but I don't want to meet with him behind your back. Lee, I wish you wouldn't despise me so. I love you. In some ways more than ever. You will always be a part of me."

"Wherever  _you_  may be," he muttered. "What can my love possibly mean to you? I think the only man who have ever loved is your father."

 _One of the two famous men I have not_  . . . but the cynicism of the thought shocked even Tyce. "Lee, I just need to talk with him."

"I said I accept that. But you want me to like the idea, and that I refuse to do." He turned to leave. "I promise after the meeting, I will bring Mykal Hodos home."

"Thank you." She rose. "I have another favor to ask."

He wanted to shout at her but contained his rage. "Of course, what is it?"

"Don't let Father know. He would disapprove."

Lee laughed. "He certainly would. But you should know how difficult it is to keep anything from him. Why do you care? ( _Why in fact do I?)_  He too would give in, in the end. Wouldn't he Tyce? No different from me in that regard."

"Yes. No different."

Lee waited then asked: "Is that why you love him so?"

"No. I love him for the same reason I love you. You are both men who refuse to give up."

Lee never felt more close to giving up. Perhaps in her own way, she was sincere and he was grateful for that. Maybe he did mean something to her, even now. But perhaps part of him was relieved she was leaving. Any other ending seemed unnecessarily prolonged and morbid. Her prattle about him joining her later was nonsense. Given his position and reputation, he had to stay and that could only have one end if the Federation attacked. So he calmly turned and walked out of the apartment forever as she softly said "Bye," and for the first and only time in his life, he wished the door was constructed so it could be slammed.

 

Introductions were hardly necessary for Jenna and Li (who Sarkoff understandably kept calling "Cally" ). But for Mykal and Franton, the President of Lindor had a difficult time getting beyond routine inquiries about health and well being. Had it not been for the assistance, however awkward, of Lee Hahn, Leader of the Auron Community in Exile, Presidential Counselor, and former ambassador of Auron things might have become sticky. Sarkoff had never been comfortable with Aurons he did not know; they were too hard to read. And yet these Aurons he  _had_  to understand.

Lee Hahn was also having his difficulties. Given his turmoil over Tyce, the struggle to maintain his reserve was increasingly undermining his work. He kept giving Mykal the oddest looks which wasn't helping things at all. Maybe it was the recorder Mykal carried, but no one had objected to it when he openly brought it into the President's office.

Finally, eager to begin, Sarkoff motioned everyone to sit, the five surrounded his massive desk as if at a war council.

"Thank you for responding to my 'summons.' As you have no doubt guessed, it  _was_  an appeal for help. This is a critical juncture in galactic history. While not yet in a state of siege, my government expects the Federation to take action against us. Only the severity of that action is in doubt."

He let that sink in before proceeding. "I understand that you want your ship, as well as its 5000 'passengers,' placed under Lindor protection. I will deal with that request first. The issue is 'humanitarian,' but complicated by the fact that the children are Auron. To be honest there are many in the government, not all of them in my 'loyal' opposition, who would strenuously object. Given Servalan's hatred of Aurons, that concern cannot be dismissed as unwarranted. Nevertheless, I am empowered to grant temporary refuge, 90 days according to our laws. That you and the children now have.

"Second. As for your ship, I have had it relocated to an abandoned base - one, I should note, that is in the process of being reactivated.

"Third, as indicated, we expect Federation demands to be issued at any time. Among those demands will certainly be the insistence that I relinquish custody of Avon." Dead silence. "They know or will know shortly that he is here. It is simply not possible in any society, let alone the open one which Lindor approximates, to keep an event of such magnitude secret."

Mykal almost jumped. "Then he is here!"

Sarkoff frowned as Jenna motioned Mykal to silence. "Correct. However, the point I was about to make is that I do not intend to comply with any such demand."

Everyone was shocked. Mykal quickly broke it.  _That young man is quite impetuous. Unusual for an Auron._

"May I ask about his condition?" Mykal tried to sound contrite.

"You may. His condition is good, but I request you hold your questions while we consider the final item on the agenda."

Sarkoff flung both arms open, then slowly clasped his hands before him on the desk. "Lindor is crawling with Federation agents. It is bad enough that Avon is here. You four being here makes it much worse. It is my understanding that you carry something with you of extraordinary value that compounds my troubles even more. Let us now discuss that matter."

"Did Avon want us here, Mr. President?" That was Mykal, again.

"No," replied Sarkoff only slightly irritated.  _Doesn't he have anything on his mind besides Avon?_  "but while he was not opposed to your coming here, I did detect a certain lack of enthusiasm."

"So he is doing well," muttered Mykal.

"Indeed he is! Which is more than I can say for myself. Let us move on, unless it is crucial he be here to discuss the matter?"

Jenna spoke up. "No. We don't need him, not right now anyway."

"But of course we will keep the option open . . . "

She nodded listlessly.

"Now, will someone please enlighten me," demanded Sarkoff, "as to what is on that ship? Your whole manner in speaking of it is that there is something extremely unusual about the vessel, far more than its remarkable appearance and size."

Li, Mykal, Jenna and Franton exchanged glances. Jenna reluctantly explained: "It was certainly 'unusual' in its fabrication. I don't know how to put it better without a long explanation. We 'grew' it on the planet we just came from - though I doubt much is left of the planet now."

Sarkoff sighed. "Given it's former inhabitants, I think I can agree. So it's not from the 'System'? Why don't I find that comforting? Please elaborate. From the beginning."

"The Auronar, just prior to Servalan's destruction of their home world, developed a technology unlike anything we are familiar with. The ship holds all the information necessary to make the technology workable by any world-or any individual for that matter.

"With it, defeating the Federation is trivial, but the price may be terrifying. That is why I insisted we all be present to discuss this when you were informed."

Sarkoff glanced at Mykal, then fixed on Li. "Well, Cally, as an Auronar, would you care to comment?"

"Call me (//Us!//) 'Li.'" Mykal rolled his eyes; Jenna shook her head. "I would not have believed it if I had not seen the technology work myself. It assembled,  _grew_ the ship that brought us, in little over a day, using only the molecules from the ground and air. Everything my companions say regarding it is true."

"My friends," Sarkoff labored, "Auron and human, please enlighten an old man with little scientific or technical background as to just what this secret is and what it can do."

That is what they proceeded to do. It was an impromptu presentation, not well-organized, but the attention of President Sarkoff and Counselor Hahn never wavered. At the end-the presentation lasted little less an hour-Sarkoff turned to his counselor: "Did you hear anything of this when you were on Auron?"

"There were rumors of such a project along the lines of what has been described. I confess I never paid much attention to them. They sounded too fantastic."

"I can sympathize. 'Starships for the price of crabgrass!' As those who know me will tell you, I frequently nod off in presentations. On this occasion, I have seldom been more attentive. One thing in particular worries me, however. Though the New Auron settlement was annihilated if Servalan did locate the planet, which is all too likely, then she may have guessed that you took away something of immense value."

Jenna concurred. "Without question. Which is why speed is vital."

"No denying that. Getting back to Avon for a moment-can he assist us? I confess I don't like the man nor trust him. Perhaps others here share my reservation," he said drolly. "But could he be an ally?"

Jenna glanced over to Mykal.  _Our favorite subject_. "Why don't I forward that to our resident Avon expert."

Mykal looked sheepish. "I think we can trust him, within limits anyway. We have to, in fact. I sincerely believe he hates the Federation and Servalan as much as any of us, though he would probably hate even more to admit it. Look, Avon has a mind that is astonishing. I have met many first rate intellects on Auron and off, people who had earned the highest scientific honors. None impressed me as much as Avon. ( _Not even Geir_. ) We have to make every effort to persuade him to help us."

Sarkoff considered that. "Well put, Mr. Hodos, but let me explain my situation. I repeat, Lindor cannot win against the Federation. Even without the presence of Avon or yourselves, if she suspects something on that ship is of use to her, she will press the attack. Urgency, indeed!"

Then he rose majestically from his chair. "Nevertheless, we must not yield to defeatism. Until tomorrow each of you will be placed in separate quarters. This meeting will then reconvene at 9:00 a.m. - with Avon, who will be provided with a full transcript of what we have discussed, minus any rude opinions. I will then meet with my cabinet and principal advisors, including Counselor Hahn. Decisions will be made at that time."  _And they must be the right decisions. Please, for once in my life, may I be certain of being right_.

"May I make a suggestion regarding the lodging of our guests?" asked the Ambassador.

Sarkoff looked quizzical then nodded gravely.

"I would like Mr. Hodos to stay the evening with us."

Sarkoff eyebrows raised. So did Li's. "I have no objections," he said flatly,  _assuming you have none._

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"You are welcome. I have some parting thoughts before you leave." He waited until they were quiet. "Are we ready to unleash this? Is there, in fact, even a choice in the matter? 'Nanotechnology'? The word is ugly. I concur that from what you say there is indeed a distinct possibility that the ancients had it. We have all heard the rumors; so much about Vastator would make sense if that were true. Pity, that our ancestor's example is not the happiest. I bid you sleep well."

 

"Lindor."

The voice of the Supreme Commander was low, but there was no doubt as to the word she had uttered. She hissed, as if the word came from a venomous snake, its implications sharp as a fang.

Floating before her in the command station was a darkened sphere, a 3D display of the Lindor system projected upon it. Its orbital forts, its bases, its allies ( _Their friends are of no consequence. When I crash through the door, the whole of their rotted confederacy will fall_.) Surrounding the system, hidden in the vastness of space, were six thousand ships of the Combined Fleet.

She had summoned her Generals and Admirals to review the plan of attack. Created under her aegis, it was now ready. There were a few details of execution remaining to be settled, but that was not the intent of the meeting. It was to gauge the mood of her people. Even in her eagerness to act, she sensed hesitancy.  _They have not yet tasted true war_.

"I always prefer a political solution," she mused aloud, as if casually thinking to herself. "Regrettably, such is unlikely given the intransigence of Lindor's President and the questionable competence of the political opposition he so recently defeated. It is unlikely any terms I offer will be acceptable; and certainly not the ones I have decided upon. That leaves no alternative except destruction."

There was quiet for some time. Finally, one young General with a manner that suggested he wanted to get on with it spoke: "Supreme Commander, can anything be done now? What about attacking the traffic in and out of the Lindor system?"

She frowned. The question was valid, but too abrupt. They were not focusing on the point of the meeting. But her answer was calm. She was feeling at times of late almost in control. "Until the operation commences, no move will be made-even against their commerce. Militarily such actions might make sense but politically they are unacceptable."  _Alas, my generals still do not understand war._

"Yes, Supreme Commander."

"Let us move on. As I was saying, a military solution to the Lindor problem is unavoidable, but it must be handled with caution, if for no other reason than, based upon our intelligence reports, Lindor's defenses could prove to be costly to breach. While victory is certain, a sloppy victory, given the complexity of the current galactic situation, could be detrimental.

"May our strike be swift and sure and unsparing! The galaxy is holding its breath! Caution will not be tolerated."

"Supreme Commander . . . ?" that from the new head of the Special Services.

"Yes?"

"The 'escapees'?" He struggled with the term. No one was happy with the business. To bring it up seemed a dangerous breech of protocol, yet she seemed almost pleased. "Ah, yes, I meant to discuss that."

He forged ahead. "Yes, Supreme Commander. Is it our understanding that you still want  _them_  alive?"

"Now more than ever!" she exalted. "I insist! They must be captured alive. We know they took with them from Kaarn something of immense value. Why else would they have so utterly destroyed the settlement? Each of you has been briefed on the reports of a recent arrival to Lindor of a large ship of unusual design. There is every reason to believe that ship is connected with the fugitives. I am prepared to accept any casualties its recovery entails! I must have them and their ship! This point is crucial-do not, whatever happens, attack that ship! Follow it, never lose it, but do not attack it - unless I order it."

At once images of Jenna, Li and Mykal appeared in the display, though even in her renewed confidence, she could not bring herself to show Avon or even mention him. She was certain, however, that her officers understood the crucial importance of capturing  _him._

"Once captured, the fugitives will tell us ( _following the usual methods of interrogation)_  all we need to know. There should be full agreement on this."

There was agreement she sensed, silent, glum but acceptable.  _It will have to do._  "Then we are ready. Tomorrow, when all Fleet elements are in place, I will contact Sarkoff. If my demands are not met in the allotted time frame, twelve hours, Operation Meteor will commence. Final details will be transmitted shortly. Go in Victory. Dismissed!"

For some time after she stared at the blank sphere. It worried her that tracking and now trapping the fugitives had been so easy. Even Jenna, who of all people should have known better, had run directly into it. What were they carrying that caused even that most worthy of adversaries to panic? Or could it be that she, Servalan, was the one who was overlooking something?  _Nonsense_. That was truly not possible. She merely had expected more from her enemies, and had once again been disappointed.  _Now all that remained was to drag them back and make them suffer._

Had life been easier when Avon was with her? No. His support had only been an illusion, though a comforting one. Then what had it meant, this devil's dance between her and that lowly male? Nothing, she realized sadly. Even if that "thing" on Terminal had aided them, as it must have, it too had proved as impotent as the rest. Now the long struggle was almost over. Avon would soon be hers again.

So it was in preparation for that event that she had taken upon herself to have a bouquet of fresh red roses sent each day to her. A symbol of the future happiness she would make, but as a symbol it too might be an illusion. Still, she could not help but admire herself for the touch. As if the flowers had been sent by a secret admirer.

She fingered one of the roses, liking the violence of the texture far more than the delicacy of the fragrance. She plucked out a rose and pressed her hands gingerly around the thorns of the stem, slowly squeezing. She did not flinch. She seemed to be empty of even the pain of suffering.  _My life for as long as I can remember has been pain. And now I do not even feel that._

 

Flying at twilight far above Lindor's capitol, Mykal Hodos watched the clouds rush over the city like an invading army. He was in a government transport for high officials and was reminded of similar circumstances months before when he had been on a mission to the leader of the Auron community, a mission that had culminated in the capture of Cally's long in-hiding sister, Molli. So much had happened since then. Here he was with Counselor Hahn, the near legendary leader of the Auron Community in Exile. He should have felt honored, but instead he felt only anxiety and guilt. The ambassador had hardly spoken to him since they boarded the transport. And this was a person Mykal desperately wanted to talk with in what little time remained.

He wondered what was the source of his inner fear? Could it be that he had more responsibility than he could handle; that he was out of his depth? Surely he was up to this. Who could doubt his value now? Lee Hahn, everyone, would have to take him seriously.

But for some reason showed no signs of doing so.

No more it seem than "Li," his former object of desire and love. This afternoon finally, she had approached him and the conversation kept running in his mind.

It had begun simply enough. She had stopped him in the hall right after the meeting, her voice ragged, faltering, as if she had aged years over the past few weeks. "I couldn't tell Jenna, so I will tell you," she began. "Neither Franton nor myself will be at the meeting tomorrow. She is very worried about the children. I think she believes they are doomed no matter what happens. I must do what I can to help her." She stopped. "Mykal, please be careful."

Mykal nodded, clutching his recorder.  _Well, fine. What am I supposed to say in response?_  "I'll let Jenna know. There should be no problem with either of you not being there." He tried to smile. "You'll miss Avon."

She nodded looking very worried, almost desperate. "That is a concern. I am torn about this. I am obligated to help Franton. but I must talk with him. Mykal, try to understand. You are a very important person to me. Please don't abandon me. I admit there is something between Avon and myself. But it's not what you think." She paused. "Maybe it is what you think. I wish I knew. The messages hint at some kind of connection between us, but it doesn't add up. Do you recall the legends and myths in our childhood about the last days?"

Mykal looked at her oddly. If there was anything more characteristic of an Auron childhood than the overabundance of myths and legends one was subjected to, Mykal had no idea what it could be. Now he  _was_  getting worried. But all he could say was: "You mean the ones about 'when the tree of life shall blossom and the stars fall'?"

She smiled nervously. "Yes, something like that. About people at the end time who would be able alter reality and save . . . " She stopped and looked down. "I can't tell you anything more, not until . . . " She looked more distraught. "I think I'll see him soon enough - maybe even under circumstances in which might believe me."

Mykal wanted to touch her, offer her some comfort, but realized at once the futility of the gesture. Alternatively, he wanted to shout at her to pull herself together. All he could do was mumble, "I don't understand."

She looked around quickly. "It is probably not wise to tell you this, but there are things I have been withholding. It is very important."

 _On no._  "Would you mind telling me?"

"I mustn't." He wanted to pull out his hair.

"Don't you ever get tired to being mysterious?"

She took no offense, looking calm and remote. "Actually I do. Mykal, please understand that I know you are hurting from this. Things are terribly confusing for me. I do care deeply about you - for all of us. I've been having dizzy spells. I am 'hearing' whispers again. I think the Entity is trying to reach me. I think there is more it wants to do to me -- which probably sounds uglier than it is." But she was unsure of that as well.

Mykal despaired. "Oh, god."

She grimaced. "I think it is 'clearing a channel', if you will pardon the expression. I don't know. Anyway, I won't discuss this with anyone else until I am sure. Which is probably why I am doing this -- leaving with Franton that is." Her voice rose. "What can I tell Avon? Honestly, what can I tell anyone? I did this to help! Not to watch my life vanish."

He spoke low, trying to calm her. "What does your sister say?"

She looked at him incredulous, then realized it undoubtedly was a reasonable question given the circumstances. "I don't think she understands this any more that I do. I just get this sense that Servalan is even more powerful than we realize."

That might well be true, but it was hard for him to imagine the woman being even more powerful. There was only so far you could go, right? "Well, thanks for letting me know. I guess." He was more confused than ever.

She was depressed, knowing none of this was coming out right. And the business about the others being alive? It was so impossible it relaxed her. "Mykal, I have to go. Please be careful with . . . ," but she could not finish the sentence. She turned to leave.

"Molli, wait."

She stopped. He stared at her, his mouth tried to speak. Finally, he held out the recorder. "Would you take it for a while? I don't quite know what to do with it right now." She took it reluctantly, looked at him sadly, unsure, then ran down the hall.

He did not want to be bitter. He was not resentful of a fate that had brought her into his life and was just as capriciously about to remove her. He was grateful for the small kindnesses that have been given him, of their one most innocent of kisses, of a chance to briefly just be with her. She was a very important person in his life, like it or not. And she did seem to care. Hadn't she, when she knew he was going to be with Tyce, not disapproving in any way, simply warned him to be careful?  _Be careful_ , while an interstellar war was about to begin. He smiled. He could hardly resent her intrusion.

Nor did he puff himself up and tell her he could handle it. He had froze, just stared at her stupidly as she ran down the hall which may have been an improvement. So he had to accept it. He had lost so much in his life, that one more loss, even this one, could be endured.

 

His mind snapped back to the city below him. There was an unreality to the scene beautiful as it was, and it troubled him. It was as if he were flying over a well-lit stellar graveyard, as if all the presumed activity, the frenetic movement of people in search of themselves and each other were somehow a penumbral illusion. A sparkling surface of life flowing down a dark river of doom. Maybe Geir had been wrong. Maybe death was the only reality and life was so ephemeral as to be forever devoid of meaning. Even Aurons, with their longer lives and pride in self-enlightenment had come no closer than their human cousins to understanding the question of questions: what is life? Could all that had happened to him, to anyone, be for naught? He was starting to think so.

He wondered what Avon would have said. Not to bother, probably.

Now he was so frustrated he wanted to pound his fists  _and_  pull his hair. This was worse than a mixed metaphor. Even if Lindor had time to create a nanotechnology defense sufficient to throw the Federation back what would be accomplished? What would be the result except to open the conflict to even more ghastly possibilities?

The people below (the transport began descending) went about their lives oblivious to the crimes that engulfed the Galaxy. They, concluded Mykal, were the lucky ones. So dulled to reality as to be free to fleetingly find some enjoyment; maybe even hope. But hope for what? He did envy them, as he envied briefly the Auron children. Was envy so futile?

He had to quit feeling sorry for himself.

His mind fixed on the building they were approaching. Lee and Tyce did not live in a house, but a condominium, part of a huge complex looming before them like a vast cylinder of light. He gulped.  _This is as exclusive as it gets._

He thought of the Auron eldress and her (relatively) modest suburban dwelling on "Molli's World". This behemoth was far and away removed from her craggy humility. With its thousands of units housing the rich and powerful, this was the true center of the city, perhaps of the planet.

A gust made the transport shudder as it landed. He got up unsteadily from his seat. The ambassador watched him but did not follow. Instead, he handed Mykal a plastic card, pressing it firmly in his hand. Mykal took it reluctantly. "Keep the card visible at all times; it will be your key and guide. Follow the guard robots," Hahn gestured to some silver cylinders approaching, "Tyce is expecting you. She knows I will not be home."

Mykal nodded slowly. He felt increasingly lost. The two Aurons shook hands and Mykal shivered as the wind and rain hissed at him as he stepped out. "See you in the morning!" he shouted as the door slammed and the transport lifted, throbbing against the air. Despite the cold, despite his shivering, Mykal watched until it vanished into the night.

He affixed the card to his lapel. The robots scanned it, then told him, in surprisingly warm voices, to follow. At an entrance, he inserted the card and a glowing map appeared on it. A door opened and he entered. It closed quickly behind him. He was so fascinated by the process, he almost forgot his trepidation.

It took a few minutes to get to the destination. When he came to the condominium, he boldly knocked, but the noise sounded rude, threatening in a manner totally unlike him. He waited. And waited. Then, irritated as no one came, he almost inserted the card to see if it would let him enter. But the door suddenly opened and there was Tyce Sarkoff, dressed in a black pants suit under a small loose skirt and wearing what looked like a white corsage. Mykal managed to mumble a greeting. She gestured to enter, took his coat gently, and motioned to the living room.

Well, he  _thought_  it was the living room. There seemed to be rooms in all directions. Big rooms. He gawked at the walls. There were huge flat monitors, ablaze with a vision of the city.  _This is spectacular._

"There are many rooms," she said. Evidently she had acted as a tour guide before, "two for guests, a study, a den, a large kitchen, and so forth. Even with the combined wealth of my husband and I, it is a considerable expense. But it is worth it. This complex houses the 'movers and shakers,' if you will pardon the expression, of Lindor. Here I never lose touch. It does pay for itself in time."

Mykal nodded. She had him convinced. There was a huge white couch and he collapsed into it. There was little he could think to say other than, "Thank you for inviting me over. It is an honor to be here, though I wish your husband could have stayed." Truly he did.

She sat across from him, a rectangular glass table separating them. "Lee is quite busy these days. So am I, but I wanted very much to meet you. Please feel at home: you are not putting anyone out. The honor is mine. You really are quite famous, Mykal. Don't pretend otherwise."

"It was a fame I never wanted," he said glumly

"Fame frequently comes to those who do not want it; as it typically eludes those who so desperately seek it."

Mykal thought on that.  _There is depth to her. Why hadn't the media seen it?_  "Which one applies to you?"

She was wistful as she looked out to the city. "I think the former. Honestly, most of the time I am not sure."

"Then," he risked, "you hope to escape your fame?"

"How perceptive! Correct, but I know I cannot. Is that something we have in common?"

Mykal grimaced. "Could be."

"I see the subject bothers you. Let's talk of easier things. Would you like something to eat or drink?"

 _Yes_. Mykal was feeling better. "Both. Whatever you have, I'll take."

 _That didn't sound quite right_ , but she smiled appreciatively. Robot butlers soon appeared and quietly and efficiently proceeded to serve them both. Mykal took a bewildering array of foods and drinks, all in small quantities. She watched him silently, curiously.

"So Mykal, tell me about yourself."

Mykal looked at her, awed again by her beauty, and felt lost. "What do you want to know? There isn't a whole lot that makes sense at the moment."

"Personal stories rarely do. Let's start with the basics. How old are you?"

"Just turned thirty-one."

"You look so much younger! Typical of Aurons-how I envy my husband at times! Over twenty years older than me, yet everyone thinks we are the same age. Of course, people can look young and not necessarily feel it or think it." She waited until the room was clear of robots. "You've had a rough time lately, haven't you?"

He nodded slowly. "My teacher was murdered, a year ago but I still can't forget it. And I killed someone recently. It was self-defense; I accept what had to be done, but I wish there had been another way." She watched him intently. He  _had_ needed to talk to someone about that. "It's nothing I particularly want to discuss, however."

"I respect that, though from looking at you I never would have guessed you could have killed under any circumstances. I am sorry that I appear to be prying. What a bad host I am! So what would you like to talk about?"

Mykal took a gulp of a pleasant white wine and went for it. "You," he said simply.

"I see I'm not the only one who has been enjoying our media."

"I wouldn't say 'enjoy' was the right way to put it. Frankly, I think it is all lies what they say about you, but I wanted to hear you say it."

"You care that much about me or are you that curious?"

"I don't mean to pry either. Maybe both."

"Well, 'just turned thirty-one' Mykal, I like you and trust you already-one of the reasons I am drawn to Auron men. Maybe I can teach you a few things."

Mykal looked glum.  _I am sure of that_.

She seemed to sense his misgivings. "You're nice ( _but naive)_  and I am not offended by your questions. Yes," she sighed, "most of what you read in our not very punctilious media is fabrication. Some, however, approximates the truth. Do you want to disentangle which is what?"

Mykal looked glum. "Probably not. It's just that it would be such an embarrassment to your father and to your husband. The galaxy needs them both. When I saw your picture, I said to myself, it needs you as well."

"I am flattered and flattery will get you far in politics, and with me. Please understand. I admire my father and husband as much as you do. I honestly tried to prevent my personal life from impinging upon theirs. I support them both and love them both. But there are also needs of my own I do not intend to sacrifice."

"Your husband knows?" Mykal was shocked.  _But how could he have not known?_

"Of course. I owed him the truth from the beginning. He has been an angel. Perhaps he felt I would change. I offered divorce, but he refused. That amazed me, but I came to realize that in a sense it freed him. I hurt him, but now he does not have to please me. I often wondered if his greatest passion was for his people - which is not to excuse anything I have done. And now he can pursue it."

"I suppose I understand. I won't ask any more."

"That's up to you. Honestly, Mykal, my real crime is that there is a good deal less illusion in my life than in most. I am not bitter - illusions fascinate me. I once wondered if there is a difference between happiness and the illusion of happiness. I remember long talks with my husband about it. Eventually I decided there was none."

"Don't you worry your life might catch up with you?"

"Life usually does, Mykal," she said earnestly. "Yes, I do worry. Or at least I did until I realized what was going to happen to Lindor, to all that was built by my father and myself. If life floats on a sea of illusion, then we are all soon to drown." Then with a stunning burst of bitterness: "One would hope the populace would be more concerned about their survival than who I happen to be bedding on any given night."

"You're right, of course," Mykal said hastily. "You see, and I am sorry if this seems unrelated, but I have been thinking a lot about Avon lately. I really want to understand how he came to be the way he is. How much control do we really have over our natures."

"Because of your killing that man?"

"Yes, especially since then. How much like Avon might I become?"

"I can see why that would trouble you. Let me assure you, Mykal, I highly doubt you could ever sink that low. It is odd that you should mention him, however. My father and I got into quite a row over him recently, but later I began to wonder if I do still hate Avon. When you think of it, he, like the rest of us, is only a product of the times. We hear so many horrible stories of crimes and massacres in distance parts of the Federation, but does it really mean anything to us? I doubt it. That's why I loved Blake. He wasn't like us. He wouldn't give up. He was a shock to us all. For years he mesmerized us. We can never forget him, hard as we try."

"Neither can Avon."

"Is that true? That surprises me. Well, Avon is full of surprises, is he not? You are curious about people, aren't you? But why do you want to know what drives him?"

Mykal wished he had a good answer. "I find it increasingly difficult to push away my fear of the future. What will happen if I succumb to that fear? I read once that promiscuous people are sometimes the way they are because of fear of death."

She was quiet for a while. "Have you been in love? I hope so, or my life must be quite a shock to you."

"I thought I was. I am not sure anymore."  _I must have really bothered her with that comment._

She smiled. "Well, that's a good sign that you are. You are learning. We all go through rude awakenings, your's no worse than anyone else's. Do you want some advice?"

"Sure."  _Can I afford it?_

"Be careful of people. They can be very cruel. Once when I was quite young and it became known to my father's enemies that I opposed him on a particular issue, I was astonished to learn what wisdom they found embodied in my puerile womanhood. I even believed them for a while. Soon enough, when I came to understand my father's viewpoints better and to agree with him more, my new 'friends' dropped me like a stone. My 'wisdom' came and went with our mutual deception - and lust for power. My father calls them the 'demon lovers' They will drain you and pitch you away without the slightest regret.

"I understood political realities - I learned them at a very early age - but what they wanted from me was something no one must give - my moral blessing of their using me. I was to submit to them to ensure their being 'right'! And how they long to be right on any conceivable subject! I hate them. My tragedy, Mykal, is that I learned to hate long before I learned to love."

 _And it never set you free._ "'The craving to be right . . . '" he murmured.

"You're quoting. I like the phrase. Who said it?"

"A philosopher of the twentieth century; the name is unimportant. One of my interests."

"Philosophers or the 20th century?"

"Both, I guess. The full quote is: 'The wrong view of science betrays itself in the craving to be right.'"

"But this is politics, Mykal, not science. In politics right or wrong are totally dependent upon what people perceive."

Mykal shook his head. "I don't believe that. Everything about your life says you don't believe either. The error has to be the same, only in politics the consequences are worse."

She considered that. "I truly did give up trying to be right. I decided we get Avons if we are lucky; Servalans and Avons if we are not. What a choice!"

Mykal decided he liked Tyce very much. There was a refreshing candor about her, a refusal to add any romantic coating to life, to insist on living it whatever the cost. Such a life had to have some value and he needed that affirmation for his own. There was no game playing with Tyce.

"I don't believe we always get Avons," he said, not entirely convinced.

"But an epoch such as ours will breed them in profusion! Oh, maybe without his brilliance, but certainly with his soul."

"You know we confer with Avon tomorrow."

She nodded. "My father told me. I declined to attend. I am leaving Lindor tomorrow anyway, but even if I were not . . . " she paused. "My father believes there is no ignoring the man. I no longer care."

"It will be some meeting."

"Fate of the galaxy and all that," she sounded bored.

"Yes. I suppose."

Her look was suddenly cold. "Jenna and Avon, they hate each other, don't they?"

"That would seem to be the case. Why are you asking me? You saw the two of them together long before I did."

"How I remember! Presumably things are no better. But are they worse?"

"For Jenna, that's a strong possibility."

"And Avon?"

Mykal shrugged. "Who knows what goes on inside him? It's always a guess."

Tyce smiled wickedly as she leaned forward. "Now the trick question. Why do they need each other so?"

Mykal had wondered about that himself. He even had a half-baked idea. "Blake had a genius for picking opposites that somehow complemented each other. It was one of his strongest points as a leader. Look at the original band: Blake and Avon, Jenna and Vila; there is a kind of symmetry however you choose the opposites."

Tyce nodded quickly. "I sensed that about Blake myself. So how do Jenna and Avon complement each other?"

Mykal sighed. "For one thing, they're both obsessed with Blake."

She laughed. "This is fascinating! Tell me how they differ."

Mykal looked miffed. He felt he was being pressed far beyond his understand, but carried on his speculations regardless. "Blake was a challenge, or 'affront,' to them both. Given the failure of his rebellion both Avon and Jenna are convinced of their guilt. Neither will forgive the other, or themselves. They feel they are bound together until one of them . . . "

His voice died. She was fully attentive now. "Yes, until one of them what . . . ?"

Mykal clasped his hands before him. "Admits defeat."

She looked disappointed. "And the other?"

"Achieves redemption."

She looked bewildered. "I thought you were going to say until one killed the other. Really Mykal, whatever Blake was, and I truly did admire and want him, he was not a god."

"We know that now. It's just that, in a way that is hard to explain, that is what they  _wanted_  him to be. They knew he wasn't a god, but the belief lives on."

"Blake was a failure," she said flatly.

"One of history's greatest," he admitted.

She moved closer. "Have you told any of this to my father?"

"I haven't had the opportunity." Mykal inched ever so slightly away. "What would have been the point?"

"Well, I wouldn't worry about the 'point'. Must everything have one? Tomorrow ask Avon what he thinks. At the very least, he should be the expert on failure by now."

"No denying that."

"Then tell my father." She looked at him intently. "Why don't  _you_  hate him?"

Mykal was getting tired and wanted to sleep. The more he thought about the meeting tomorrow, the more tired and more anxious he became. He wished Tyce wasn't so relentless, yet there was nothing he could point his finger on as a definite attempt to wear him down. Perhaps it was the intensity of the woman he found so overpowering.

"Maybe like your father, I think liking or disliking Avon is irrelevant. What matters is that he is someone we have to understand. We need him; now more than ever."

She flared. "Neither my father nor I 'need' him! We need nothing from that murderer!"

Mykal was angry. "I'm sorry, but can we get beyond this 'my daddy is bigger than your daddy' routine?"

Her eyes widened; at once she relented. "What a revealing way to put it. Forgive me, Mykal. I misspoke; you have helped me understand a little. Is that what Avon means to you?"

Mykal shook his head in an utterly convincing denial. He felt the room becoming very warm. "He is the hero of my people. He even saved my life. Maybe God has an appalling sense of humor, but ever since I met Avon almost a year ago, I have been convinced that my fate is bound inseparably with his. I won't abandon him." He looked straight at her.

"I not asking you to. Let Avon do the abandoning."

"Even for you?" _To your husband?_

She stopped. Again she seemed to sense what he was thinking. "Mykal, that was unkind."

"This is politics, remember. Kindness has nothing to do with it." Something he had drunk definitely had an impact.

She put her hand firmly on his. Her smile actually possessed warmth, but her grip was hard.

"Touche, Mykal. Lee and I are good friends, allies if you wish, but the marriage never worked. I regret that I need more, much more than he can provide. Is that such a sin?"

"No, it's standard stuff."

"But I like to think I improved on it."

"How much does your husband know?" Despite himself, he felt his hand gently respond to hers.

"All that he needs to. He accepts it as the consequence of my way of dealing with life."

"So there is someone else?"

"Several actually. At worst, I run from one suffocating relationship to another. At best, I sometimes find someone who seems to understand for a while. You really aren't interested in numbers, like the rest of the dullards, are you?"

Mykal winced. "No, of course not."

"Thank you. So now you know I am not a good woman," she withdrew her hand gently.

"Why did you insist on meeting me?"

"I was curious; I am drawn to the famous. You were all over FNN, not to mention our local equivalents, and I knew Jenna or Cally would never agree to talk with me. I also think  _he_  was curious as well."

"Curious about what?"

"If you would be able to resist me. I am a very powerful woman."

Mykal was close to being furious. "Didn't anyone ever tell you power corrupts and sexual power is no different from any other in that regard?"

She shrugged. "Why you are so shocked? My sex gives me a certain freedom in these matters. Relax, Mykal, I'm not going to force you into anything. I'm offering, not taking."

Mykal was floored. In all his life nobody had ever hit on him. "Look, you are very attractive . . . ", he stumbled.

She glanced upward. "Oh, Mykal, how you flatter a girl!"

"Let me finish. You are way beyond my experience and comfort level. I would be a horrible disappointment to you."  _To us both_.

Her voice was low. "Why not let me decide that? I'm willing to take the risk. Are you? Or are you bound to an other?"

Mykal swallowed.  _Li? Li is about as interested in me as this women is in swearing to a life of chastity._  "No. But I could never forgive myself."

She withdrew. "Very well, Mykal, but you won't get a second chance. With me, no one ever does." She winked. "You may hate yourself in the morning."

"I suspect I will hate myself no matter what I do."

She laughed. "Shame on you for deceiving me, Mykal - you're not so naive after all."

"Look, may I ask something?"

"Sure, ask away. That's why you are here."

"Forget what this is doing to your husband. Don't you realize what this is doing to you and your father?"

"Mykal, I've already received that lecture far too many times."

"Then it would probably be very wise for me not to elaborate on it. I am tired. I would like to go to the guest room and to prepare myself for tomorrow."

"Of course. I can take a hint," she sighed. "You will find a prepared guest room down the hall. When would you like to rise tomorrow morning?"

"An hour and a half before the meeting."

"Consider it done. One of the robot maids will awaken you."

"Thank you."

She gave him a hurt look but Mykal had gotten so used to it by now from the women in his life that its effect was minimal. "Good night, Mykal," and she left for her room.

 

In the morning as promised, a robot maid stood by the door and calmly called his name in soothing though ever louder tones. Finally Mykal roused himself sufficiently to tell it to shut up and go away. Things went easier after that. Upon opening the closet, he discovered there was an excellent suit for his use (a card by the dresser in a graceful hand said it was indeed for him.) For another, he was actually beginning to look forward to the day. He was ready for Avon. As he showered quickly, he wondered how he could thank the hostess. He hoped Tyce was still there.

But she was not. Breakfast was ready on a table of dazzling white and chrome, but Tyce was nowhere to be seen.

When he finished, a robot briskly removed the plates. Under one of them was a note addressed to him. He opened it:

Dear Mykal:

_I apologize for being a bit overpowering last night. I did mean well. I am not indifferent to the feelings of others. I slept badly for many reasons, but one was my worry that I had hurt you - not a usual feeling in my life. Each time I slept, I felt I might never awaken. I who have longed to die in the arms of a million lovers, now am certain I will die alone._

_It is doubtful I will see Lee, my father, or anyone again. The opportunity has presented itself to leave Lindor and I will take it. That being the case, please allow me to wish the best of luck to you and your friends. Believe me when I say I am not all bad. My fears are old and as noted, not special. Someday you will understand. I ask that you remember me for what I might have been as much as what I became._

Yours,

 

Tyce

The God of Shame

That morning, while Mykal struggled to awaken, President Sarkoff received the ultimatum he had long expected. It began with a code phrase from his commanders in the field: "Pistol Flash". It meant the Federation Combined Fleet was at the gates of Lindor.

Alert at once, he responded with a code response of his own: "Threatening Clouds". The defense forces were now on yellow alert. He wanted to appear calm; red was too extreme. But the state of planetary siege, long anticipated, was now in effect.

War could not be far behind.

Plans for this eventuality had been worked out in detail. That was an advantage. The enemy expected a Lindor unprepared, ready to admit defeat. They were mistaken. Defeat might be certain, but he would not permit the word, anymore than a thought of his daughter, to breech his consciousness. He thought only of the nasty sting that would be dealt the Combined Fleet.

He moved methodically to his office, conferring hurriedly as he went with aides, advisors, military and cabinet liaisons. He would not be rushed into any decision. His meeting schedule, he informed them, was unchanged.

For over an hour after he received the coded message, he had tried to get through to Servalan a formal request for talks but with no response It was clear she was not to be rushed into dialogue. But within two hours, he was in his office facing her. There before him was the bleached white face that blended against a white background.

 _How easy it might be for her to dissolve and flow away, a trickle of evil, a puddle of death._  For a few moments they starred at each other, each trying to read the other for weakness. He found none. He would never know what she found.

"President Sarkoff, it has been such a long time. Not since I returned your very large collection of historical artifacts, I believe. When was that? Upon the occasion of your government's formal recognition of my rule, I believe. Not long before your declaration of independence."

"My government accepted the reality of your rule over the Federation, but not over us. We did, however, entertain the hope that moderation might result. I signed an agreement of trade shortly thereafter. You were grateful, as I recall."

"I do recall, President Sarkoff. Which is why I was saddened you suspended diplomatic relations with us, along with your planet's valuable trade."

He stiffened. "The actions of your administration made our response unavoidable. I seriously doubt the Federation was significantly harmed by anything Lindor has done."

"Harmed? No. Pained? Yes. You have caused me quite a bit of unhappiness by your defiance, though I concede perhaps more than you are aware, or intended. You see, " she beamed, "I am not bitter. I have come in person to resolve the matter. You should feel honored."

"I would be had you not brought with you so many uninvited guests."

She looked hurt. "The Combined Fleet? They are my protection, nothing more."

"Of course," Sarkoff said wearily. "State your terms."

Ever so slightly, she leaned forward,. "Avon. The three others. Whoever was in that settlement. But above all else, that ship." She stated the demands simply, concisely, yet he could not help but feel there was something she was omitting.  _Maybe there was a weakness_.

She continued, "There are other requests, such as a statement of neutrality from Lindor and the dropping of your sanctions, but I am confident these can be worked out once the primary demands have been met"  _I must have that ship_.

"And what does Lindor receive in return?"

"The withdrawal of the Combined Fleet. Lindor left in peace. Your military intact."

He did not believe any of it. "How much time does the government of Lindor have before a response must be made?"

"Actually very little. My patience is somewhat strained of late. I regret that, but I am sure you understand my sensibilities. You have until 6:00 p.m., your time."

He frowned. "Barely ten hours. That does not give us sufficient time. We received nothing resembling a formal list of conditions . . . "

"I have given you the 'formal list!' Those are my conditions! The problem of time is yours, not mine. I will have what I came for! There is nothing to bargain for!"

Sarkoff waited, then said calmly. "I cannot respond to such language."

"My demands far outweigh  _your_  sensibilities. Do I have to prove my point?"

"A response will be given before the designated time."

"Excellent. Promptness is a virtue, President Sarkoff, and I know you are a virtuous man."

And with that she broke the connection.

He was stunned, dead even as he lived. But swiftly he broke the paralysis and acted. Instructions were sent throughout the Confederacy. A state of emergency now existed.  _Full red alert._  The constitution would give him the power he required. Very fleeting power, but it would be his to use now.

He looked out to the gray dawn light. He had called her apartment, the confirmed that her flight had indeed left. His daughter was gone. Luck was with her.  _At least she made it._

And he remembered vaguely words of the ancient play, words to the effect of that death will come when it will come.

 

It was a council of war. Arranged in a crescent before him, were Counselor Hahn, Jenna, Mykal, and separated from them, standing in the rear, Avon. Everyone was having a hard time acknowledging him. The reality of war overshadowed even Avon's presence. Mykal, who had prepared a witty greeting to the effect of: "I owe you one, but it's good to see you," had been deflated by the reality of what had happened. And he was talkative compared to Jenna.

Of course Avon was completely silent.

Sarkoff spoke quickly and forcefully.  _This is the culmination of politics._   _At its root is the threat of force, and now the potential is about to become actual._ He was ready.

"This morning an ultimatum was received from the President of the Federation. The Lindor government has until 6:00 this evening to respond to her demands. The affected parties within this room can guess what they are. She wants the children-though she does not know who exactly was on the ship-all of you, and that ship" he said with a pointed glance to Avon. "In response, I have placed Lindor Defense Forces on full alert."

He paused. "Let me begin with you, Avon, a primary object of her interest. You have read the transcripts of yesterday's meeting?"

"I have."

"Your comments, please."

"Consider everything you can to buy time while seeming to comply. It's your best chance. Running does not appear to be practical."

Only Sarkoff's presence restrained Jenna. He sternly glanced at her. She remained silent. Sarkoff was thinking of Tyce, but he managed to say: "I agree. I do have hope, however - perhaps she seeks only to humiliate Lindor, not destroy it. The other hope is: can we use this 'nanotechnology?' Can it be implemented within the next few hours?" Again, he directed the question to Avon.

Avon was not inclined for once to argue any side. "I do not know enough, neither does anyone in this room, to gauge the risks. Days, weeks, perhaps we could make a decision. Hours? Unlikely, but I will not stand in the way of the decision you make."

Sarkoff nodded. "I think I agree. Are there dissenters, knowing full well the cost to yourselves should I comply with her demands?"

"I am one."

"Yes, Counselor Hahn, that is a frequent and welcome role of yours."

"You told me on more than one occasion that there is a balance in the polis between freedom and life." Sarkoff nodded, grateful that for once someone had listened to what he had said rather than how he said it. "That it was the responsibility of the elected leadership to maintain that balance; that the life of an epoch was its ideas and principles, as much as its people.

"Principle cannot be sacrificed, you have told me many times. The immediate issue is not those we have given refuge too. I submit there is a principle, one that cannot be ignored. We can bargain, we must do everything in our power to bargain, but we cannot capitulate."

"I sense you support the nanotechnology option. Jenna?"

"I will support whatever decision you make. We are here as refugees not citizens," she glanced pointedly at Avon, "as such we can only make requests. I do not dread death so much that I would yield to Servalan. I can speak for my companions-they are with me, but I cannot speak or make decisions for an entire star system. That is for you to decide."

Sarkoff could not get Tyce out of his mind. The agony of this separation . . .  _You should have said goodbye better than you did. That was my right. Farewell my only child._  "Mykal?"

"I vote for using the technology as it stands. On the basis of what we know, it is right to use it in our defense, regardless of the risks."

"I am inclined to agree, but Avon's point is well-taken. We must know more before we use it."

Avon shifted. "Forgive the intrusion -- but have you entertained the possibility of me being your 'good will' ambassador to the Federation?" he asked.

"Have  _you_  speak to her?" Sarkoff was incredulous.

Avon looked dour. "I raised the possibility only as a means to delay her."

Sarkoff nodded slowly. "It also might urge her on to greater speed. I will consider it, however."

Then Sarkoff stood. "I must close this meeting. My cabinet will be meeting in emergency session momentarily. Avon will stay with me  _(Why do I feel safe with_ him _?_ ). After that we will attempt to contact Servalan. In the meantime, everyone else in this room will be removed to the base where the  _Sword of Auron_  is located." Lee began to protest but Sarkoff cut him off. "That is an order-for all of you. I have arranged the means already. It is your best chance for survival. I wish to thank each of you for your courage and support."

Then he rushed out of the room, Avon beside him. Mykal and Jenna glanced at each other; then both looked in dismay to Lee.

 

As the hours went by, Servalan's terror mounted along with her impatience. She had not anticipated this particular enemy rearing out of the abandoned hell of her soul: her own overwhelming frustration with her self, the shame of her being. She could not stand the presence of people now. She had isolated herself (even ORAC had been cut out), for at times like this the future, in all its ghosts of possibilities, would overwhelm her. Vague shapes, cloud shadows, dream forms weaved before her like snakes. She was now the nexus of the possible . . . coffins of reality rolled in like a chilling fog of  _if_. Only her certainty of the future sealed the fate of these visions. She clinched her fists, driving her nails into her palms, luxuriating in the pain, as the visions, all but one, died before her. If release was to be found, it would be in blood.

She had not slept for days. Sleeplessness helped the visions come, the future visions that would give her the power to act, but the price they exacted was the horror of knowing what she was. In this state of exhaustion, more death than life, would come the nightmare legacy ( _The shame!)_  of her birth. The dreams of the future would give her power but never peace.

There was a clock before her, but it was slipping the bounds of time. Erratic, disjointed in its movements, moving back, then forward, without purpose, without meaning, without cause or sense. There was only one cure. She must act, cut through the possibilities with a single knife slash of desperate, dazzling action and be free.

She was struggling with all her strength. Only through the supreme act of will could she keep control. She focused on the question:  _Why had she been created?!_ And from there by an act of murderous will . . . time steadied. The clock digits slowed then moved drunkenly forward ever so slowly. It was, she noted, three hours from her deadline, but she would wait no more.  _What if they had tried to reach me? No matter._  Moving her hand like a fleshy spider, trembling, she summoned the Fleet Commander.

He was shocked when he saw her ( _Do I look that bad?)_ , but quickly regained his composure. He knew what it meant. She would have her war.

"They still have not responded!" She cried. It was her truth even if it was a lie.

"Supreme Commander, for the past several hours we have been trying . . . ," he answered excitedly.

"Then we must punish them," she silenced him with finality. There was nothing more anyone could say.

"Yes, Supreme Commander."

"We must attack. There is no choice. Against their advance bases, upon their commerce. Sweep their skies. No mercy. Let them know I am  _angry!_ "

In the greatest risk of his career, he said, "Supreme Commander, I understand your anguish but perhaps we should still wait, some squadrons are not . . . "

"No! Operation Meteor," her hands lifted as she stood, "will commence!"

"Understood, Supreme Commander. I will issue the orders at once."

"Thank you, Fleet Commander." She sounded out of breath. "I am sure all will go well. May our victory be swift."

He saluted and she snapped off the screen. And with that she fainted in exhaustion and relief, whispering the word that haunted her and sounded like "Avon."

 

Sarkoff at his desk, stared into the bank of cameras. His voice was emotionless but he had never felt more engaged. " . . . We had been assured by the Federation President that no action would be taken until the deadline. I have now been informed by Grand Admiral Karlsyn of the following: though the deadline was three hours away, elements of the Federation Combined Fleet have without provocation struck our forward bases."

The moral dilemma was expressed in terms of stark simplicity. Suppose a city were besieged, defeat for the defenders being certain if the surrounding army should attack. In such an attack and its aftermath the inhabitants would perish. Suppose that the besieging army proposed the following: surrender one man, a non-citizen at that, and the siege would the lifted and the city spared. As the ruler of the city, what would you do?

The core of the problem, as he saw it, was in the nature of law. If one assumed law was imposed by the reality of intelligent life, not from legislative fiat, then given that the man was not a criminal - as defined by natural law - then the answer must be to refuse.

Avon stood, his arms crossed, just out of the camera angle.  _My bodyguard. What a test case._

If, however, law were the creation, not the discovery, of those in power, then the matter became one of arithmetic. One man for the lives of the city. But the price was destruction of any law. And a society without law was anarchy.  _Let me die before it comes to that._

"As Federation forces have launched a deliberate, malicious, and surprise attack upon the Lindor Confederacy, I have no recourse. I can assure you we have responded with all available force. Resistance is strong, heroic, with high enemy casualties. We expect, however, these bases to succumb."  _They already have._

To the objectors, the philosophical question on the nature of law had no bearing. All that mattered was that lives, many lives, would likely be spared. Sarkoff knew his arguments lacked rigor, but the point could not be evaded. The life of civilization was its laws. In the matter of law, arithmetic had no meaning. One man's life was not forfeit because of numbers. There could be no calculus of justice. When the rights of one were violated, so were all and to that degree the city (or planetary system) and its people died. War would then be its obituary for the body, but the life had already expired.

He was alone as he addressed the cameras. He did not know someone else was just outside the door, putting up a terrific fight that three guards could not contain. As he neared the conclusion of his address, the door flung open and she rushed in, with ferocity, terror, and unrelenting grief on her face, a look he had never seen on her.  _My daughter, my ally, my friend. Thank you and forgive me._

"I ask you to join with me in this darkest of hours. May your prayers go to our brave soldiers now fighting against the might of the Federation. For as a result of these unprovoked actions, it is my duty to inform you that a state of war now exists. And per the requirements of the Lindor Constitution, a President who declares war must resign. I do so now."

He stood as the flag of Lindor appeared on the monitors and the anthem played. Tyce ran up to her father and before them all boldly embraced him.

"I knew you would never leave me alone," he said quietly.

And she collapsed sobbing into his arms.


	6. Of What Devils Hid the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously Published in Dark Between the Stars #5

This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells,

And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells-

Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash,

Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash.

 

-G. K. Chesterton

Whirlwind

_It is not aloneness that frightens me. There is nothing in being separate that summons terror to me, even to a child of Auron, which I am. Nor have I ever understand the fear in others. There are far worse states than being alone . . ._

Odd that the realization should rise before me at this time, under these circumstances like some guilt-inflicting spirit. Perhaps, because I sense my shared mind, my duality, is fading, that this exorcism of guilt is necessary. To be a wholeness implies an end to shared responsibility . . .

At this moment, I have been given a choice between guilt (forgive me, Mykal) and regret (I am sorry, Cally). And so too I have come to consider the reality of being forever alone, what is known as death. Humans fear it, I understand, more than Aurons, but we Aurons are not above such terrors. If our lives were to be weighed in the balance of judgment, would we profit the more? If so, I am sorry for us all . . .

I say these things to the inky night and the blackness like a fetid tide floods into me, drowning me. I am not afraid, I say, come what may.

 

Soon, my companion and I will be escaping Lindor. That is the plan and the hope. But to where? There is little in me at this moment that cares about ultimate destinations. Were it not for the closeness-wanting-I seem to be lacking a word, or is it an emotion?-of my companion, I might be indifferent. Now I sense shame for my fellow Auronar. She should understand my need to be away, even disregarding the current circumstances. That is why I fled my home planet in the first place. Tradition did not have so much to do with it. In this, I am close to my human cousins. The thought occurs to me that I could hardly sink further.

_Forgive me, all of you._

I am Cally.

I am Molli.

I am Li.

What then is missing?

"Li," asked Franton  _(Have I been telesending? A red flush of shame sweeps over me)_  out of the darkness, "where are we going?"

Courtesy compels an answer. I do not want to respond flippantly to her or to anyone else, so let me do my best to explain. The two of us are in an aircar, heading west from the Capitol of the Lindor Confederacy. We are cruising at an altitude of five kilometers, our velocity just below Mach 1.

Appropriate security precautions have been taken, but I am edgy. It is shortly past midnight. A war has started and I have no confidence in my piloting abilities should evasive maneuvers be required. Yet it is foolish to think the vast defense forces arrayed above and below the planet are on the alert for a single unarmed aircar. It is not outside the realm of reason that we will remain unnoticed.

The aircar? I seized it in the desperation of the moment. Not a bad choice as such things go. An aircar, cramped as it is, does support the illusion of being cut off from external reality, a feeling that pleases me. Inside the pilot module, you are surround by monitors. At no time, unless the equipment went down - impossible, I was informed - do you ever "see" outside. No different, in effect, from being in a flight simulator.

Our prime hope in remaining in anonymity lies in the volume of traffic fleeing the capitol. I watch it as best I can, but eventually give up. Either it will be enough or it won't.

Angrily, I think of disabling Mykal's recorder. Why I would want to keep a record of this escapes me. Everything is so chaotic. Who would care to hear my meandering thoughts? Where are all these people going anyway? Anyone's guess as far as I can see. Damn few must have a starship waiting for them. Lucky us. Fewer still must have the personal orders of President Sarkoff himself on them as a passport. I suppose that is their problem. Franton and I have enough of our own.

We were heading for an abandoned base - well, it was until recently, until the Lindor Defense Command reactivated it. Our flight path is taking us to an area surrounded by lakes and mountains. Ridiculously romantic, says I. Like we were going on a vacation.

Mind you, I appreciated all that Sarkoff did for us. All of us do and that includes even Avon. I am truly grateful to the Lindor government. If the Federation captures Sarkoff, he won't last long. A tough leader, pragmatic in the best sense of the word; still, I doubt if Sarkoff would have approved of quite the way I was going about fulfilling his assignment. Our mission, if you wish to call it that, was legitimate as I say but the aircar was not exactly mine for the taking.

Yet Franton's question shouldn't have bothered me. It was not reasonable for me, or anyone, to feel guilt in this circumstance. Parts of me had always been fleeing one thing or an other. So why couldn't I just shrug this off? What was bothering me? I mean, I knew where we were going but is the real question I am dreading "why"? What  _were_  we going to do, all that was left of Blake's adventuring? You tell me.

Poor Franton. An honest reply would have been: "I don't care. I will never care," but I doubt Franton, given what was left of the Clinician's composure, would have been comforted by such. So I replied, not moving my eyes from the instruments,  _Li the professional pilot:_  "To ensure the safety of the children." ( _//Feeling sorry for yourself?//_ )

That was the wrong question I was replying to, of course. Thankfully, she did not question further.

My "skills" made this midnight flight a big risk. I know the principles of flying of course, aerodynamics and all that and have been in plenty of simulators, but I don't know any more about flying an aircar than a cat knows about barking. Luckily, my ever-present sister for once is a help ( _//And how!//_ ). I know it sounds incredible, but Cally is an ace pilot ( _//Thanks.//_ ) and if you can get past her manners ( _//Look whose talking!//)_  almost tolerable ( _//You're such a dear!//)._ In a way.

Over the past several months we have been "together" in a single body that used to be mine  _(//So-rry!//)._ I have become more like her ( _//Lucky you.//_ ) and she like me ( _//You can't have everything.//)_. She's almost useful to have around at a time like this.

(And at that she shut up for the moment.)

Believe me, the trip to the base wasn't supposed to have become the hegira it did. Things were supposed to have been routine, smooth as they say, but by the time we arrived to the rendezvous point where we were to link up with our escort (VIPs we were, it says so in our security pass), the war had officially started and the local Commander (never came close to him) had more pressing business to attend to then escort two civilians out of the Capitol. I sympathized. Given the circumstances, Federation attack and all, it wasn't like we were a priority item! So as much as I loath officialdom, I acquiesced. Nevertheless, I wanted out. I fumed. Passivity and sweet reasonableness are not my natural style. We waited, I think maybe fifteen minutes while Franton was all nauseating understanding.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. It dawned on me that our being ignored might work in our favor. Never look a gift fate in the mouth, I say. I did  _not_ want to stay in the Capitol; therefore, a way  _out_  would be found. For my sanity, not to mention our lives, I had to get us out of here.

So I said to Franton: let's go for a walk, and clapping our hands in the cold, we went over to an adjacent field to see if there was anything we might, well, "borrow". Can't shoot someone for asking, right? We saw at once that everything big was gone or powering up to get out of there. The field was loud, incredibly noisy, but no attack seemed imminent. Was the Federation taking their time? Or were they having their problems as well? If so, good for them.

I approached a guard, a young, naive-looking type. More good luck, says I. Mind you, there were plenty of cyber-guards patrolling the area, scanning our security badges constantly, but military regulations require as least one water-and-carbon-based guard to oversee. And being a man, I figured how could we lose? With Franton along, the helpless routine was not a bad approach. He looked at us both as if we were the type who would have trouble crossing the street.

Not exactly the lustful stares I'm used too. ( _//Stop flattering yourself.//_ )

I dangled my credentials and authorization under his nose and endured the usual suspicions and delays while he made calls. Actually, he knew perfectly well who we were and what we wanted but he had to make it look official. He was dull about the whole business, but eventually he couldn't find anyone to say "No" and miracle of miracles, we were directed to an aircar. We must have looked disappointed. That? Yes, that. A squat ugly little thing with stubby wings that looked about as airborne as a slug (and thereafter, "slug" is what I called it) parked under a single glaring light. Our guard, gentleman that he was, quickly assured us it had extended range and enough speed to get us to our destination in time. I was past objecting and well into despair so I shut up. Maybe this wasn't total lunacy though it seemed close. I was worried. There was no conceivable way Lindor could hold off the Federation for long and if there was to be any chance for the children, not to mention the rest of us, we had damn well better be ready to take what we could get.

 

I made a solemn promise to get it back in twelve hours (fat chance-I didn't believed it, why should he?). We crawled into the thing, two people is all it could hold and in a few minutes programmed a flight plan - thank God for standard interfaces-and got the motor humming.

I should explain that all navigation done by monitors, ugly garish purple and yellow line displays and even worse color combinations. Only in the most extreme emergencies does a pilot go visual. By that I mean actually looking out a real window.

Slowly, past the empty buildings, out onto the infrared lit field, we bounced along. I waved at the guard as we passed; stupid - he couldn't see us in the slug even if he had bothered to look - and started taxiing down a side runway. For a moment, I felt exhilarated and frankly silly.  _Don't help a good Auron go bad. Lock your aircar, take your keys_.

But I sobered up quick enough. Flying this thing was going to be one of the more interesting gambles of my life. I didn't think I would crash it - one has to have faith, after all - but I was scared. The slug had some kind of magnetic drive which frankly I couldn't begin to understand. How to tell what was a serious problem and what wasn't? Beats me. The only reassuring thing about it I realized, as Franton and I got as comfortable as we could in our seats, was that most of the controls  _looked_  and even acted familiar. Barring bad weather, and there was nothing in the weather reports that indicated any, we should make it.

The runway was clear; the glowing purple lines and yellows blinkers lined up. I made and remade some quick status checks as we began to pick up speed. The caution lights cleared and I pulled back the power bars, full throttle. There was the sound like a hum like an angry bee, and we scooted off and up, heading west into the night, a slight breeze the only thing opposing us.

At first, I thought it might be best to keep our flight path low, but we were going over lots of residential areas and I was thinking the citizenry might be getting nervous enough. It was too much of a struggle to keep an even trim at that altitude anyway. I slid my hand forward on the altitude control and surprisingly the response was not bad. We soared upward smoothly after a fashion, the monitors showed the ground dissolving into a sparkling mist. Grace and beauty out of the context of what was happening, yet it steadied me.

 

I fixed my eyes on the horizon, or the glowing green line representing it, and pretty soon I was able to keep it from bouncing or tilting. I relaxed for a moment. The slug was all right. Sure, there was an unfortunate tendency to roller coaster and I thought more than once that Franton was going to be sick (and me along with her) but for the first time since our final meeting with Sarkoff, I fancied this might actually work.

The controls continued to be sluggish (sorry) but the weather was holding steady, just as the reports said, so in the near term things looked nominal. Since by definition landing takes place low to the ground, it was only the upcoming landing that offered a real cause for concern. In the meantime, I had every channel monitored and I kept waiting for a summons to land, but nobody shouted and nobody shot.

As we were now far from the city, I took my first scan of the country below. The imaging computers in the slug, I had to admit were first rate. Down below they assured me, it was all forest, lakes, and occasional roads, all marked in more detail you could ever want this side of reality. For the good reason that no weather could affect them, you were supposed to trust the displays far more than you would have sticking your head out the window (assuming anyone would have been stupid enough to do such a thing at nearly 1000 kilometers an hour). Could there be limits to that trust?

The ground which had now slowed in its movement beneath us to a crawl was as black as a grave and as real as death. The sky was hardly more cheery. A cloudy veil of stars with occasional streaks of light cutting across (meteors?), but mostly the night was shadows dropping down over Lindor like a pall, like devils getting ready for the predawn check-in. A dawn that was still uncomfortable hours away.

The monitors showed we were coming up on a lake, a huge thing stretching narrowly north for miles, like a watery finger pointing to our destination. The monitors gave me the eyes of a god, and, I was discovering, the soul of a judge. I could see the outlines of extravagant houses and incredibly even the lights of boats. That made me angry. As if nothing could be more justified this night then a romantic evening of pleasure ( _haven't these people heard there is a war on?_ ). The waves must lap for them with the sound of faint and distant laughter . . . and unless these people were Aurons, none of them would be pitched into the tumbrels. A Federation victory, and I held no doubt that it would be, might work out rather well for some! There was no necessity to annihilate Lindor: just bring it into the orbit of the Federation quickly and efficiently. Servalan and her minions could count on forming a collaborationist government with no difficulty! Soon the lucky would go back to their lives as if nothing had happened.

 _Stop it!_  But I could not stop. How many would even notice or how many of them would ever care.

Finally, shame overcame my bitterness and the irrationality that spawned it. It was my own guilt feeding the fires of rage. Never deny that. All that would be left would be ashes of pity. Spill it. Tell the truth. I had held out on my companions. I, an Auron, had been less than honest. And here I was pronouncing my judgment on people I had never met. I was furious at people I knew nothing of for what they had not done. A lot easier than facing oneself, right?

Guilt and anger raged on. I thought only of the base, the children, and escape. Everything else was just another source of despair. I never felt lower. I think I must have been feeling more dizzy than usual.

We passed the lake and the country became less scenic, more desolate. For a moment, I managed to move beyond self-recrimination. Franton was trying to sleep but not doing well. She would talk in her sleep in gibberish and then wake up with a start. It was getting on my nerves.

Finally, we were about a half hour from the base, just starting to see dawn light, when Franton awoke once more. Whether it was a premonition in a bad dream or just being overly fitful, I will never know. At the time, I was busy calculating my final approach. I had just picked up the landing beacon. So it was she who saw the Federation weapon first. I am ashamed to admit it, for I already had several clues that something was drastically wrong. I just chose to ignore them. Ace pilot Li at your service. I had done so because in another half hour, why would it matter? It wasn't like I was going to lose my insurance over this.

I was struggling to adjust the trim of the aircar and thinking to myself: why are the automatic controls not responding? Was my flying that bad? Yet I have a reasonable amount of upper arm strength. I could handle it. Not much longer and we're home, consoled the eternal fool.

But the slug refused to act as it should. What was wrong? The computers were not malfunctioning - every diagnostic program was clean and these things have lots of backups. I was pressing all the right buttons. I was frantically studying the instruments and struggling to keep under control, when Franton said quietly: "There's a thunderstorm ahead. You can see it now."

I said something non-committal.  _Wait a second._  We had checked the forecast very carefully. There was nothing about rain anywhere near where we were headed. And I know what a thunderhead looks like and there was nothing resembling a bloated piece of popcorn on the horizon. Just clear and calm except for something like streamers dancing as they descended.

I tore myself away from the instruments and cleared the displays, powered them off and looked out with my own unaided eyes. That's when I saw it. There in the diffuse light of what should have been dawn. This was no storm. A wrong guess on her part, but give her credit for trying. Unless you know what it is, you might well think it was a storm too. Or some odd kind of aurora. The light was pale and far in the distance, shimmering like a sheet of translucent amber. For a moment I thought of drapes folding gently in the breeze . . . I shook my head. Then there were clouds like fire enfolding where the sheet touched the ground. Thick clouds billowing up, roiling fog into an angry lace. I scanned the horizon. I looked up. On all sides, as far as I could see, something was coming down from the sky, enveloping us.

I knew what it was. It was a cone of force originating thousands of kilometers above. From down here you had no hope of seeing the apex of the cone. The sheets were forming into a vast cylinder of energy that polarized the light of the emerging sun. I guessed that is what the few thin vertical streaks were: starlight all along its length. The light that made it through was dim, strained.

The stars were being cut out of the sky, slaughtered by the devils that were my people's enemy. It was the "Curtain".

The Curtain. Not a bad name given the usual Federation bent towards gallows's humor. Curtains indeed for us. There was no escaping that vast circle of ionized fire burning the ground and ripping into the air for hundred of kilometers around us, from thousands of kilometers above. To this darkness, dawn would never come. The trap was complete.

It was the Curtain that was rendering the monitors useless. I tried switching the displays back on. Even the diagnostic programs were bad now. The landing beacon was visible, but the landscape around the field kept changing, from checkerboard lakes, to shrinking trees, to bouncing mountains, to waving city scenes. The computers were trying to help, trying to compensate, and going mad in the process. Who could blame them? And that was the good news. Much worse, if my guess was correct, the Curtain was just outside the base we were heading for. I looked over at Franton and must have looked terrified.  _They knew. They knew about the base. The Federation was waiting for us!_

The full implications finally hit me as I realized the Curtain was starting to affect more than the displays. All the controls were failing. For the first time I think I was truly scared, a gut-punching dread that cut as deep as anything I have ever felt.

Ever have one of those days? There would be no getting out of this one. If we got too close to the Curtain the aircar would be pulverized. Nothing we did would make a difference.  _Be defiant to the end._

Thanks. Who was that? Despite the sheer awe I felt in the face of this power, I was not paralyzed. I glanced at the range indicator, but the figures were meaningless; letters and minus signs! I shut off everything automatic, except the most basic manual controls. Want some more bad news? I was going to have to pilot it in manually.

I kept my brilliantly cool head and gave no hint of what was happening to Franton ( _//Who are you kidding?//_ ). Of course she would figure it out. My powering off all the displays must have given her a clue. Even if she had no idea what the Curtain was, it would not take much though to grasp the seriousness of what was happening.

Options? We could bail out once we got near enough, but that was hardly an appealing choice. To be honest, I would have had to stun Franton to do it. And without reliable computer controls, we would have no stable platform for the jump and the velocity would have been too high anyway. Way too risky. And if there were any other alternatives, I missed them. As near as I could see, the "slug" was continuing to follow the beacon, but it was losing speed and altitude too fast. ( _Don't make it easy on me!_ ) At this rate, we would crash in the rocky wilderness well before we reached the base.

That did it. I thrust the power breakers all the way forward and cut everything I could from the subsystems. I  _would_  fly the damn thing manually!

I kept my eyes fixed on the beacon like I was in a trance. If I could keep it steady and could hold a halfway stable approach vector . . .

In less than five minutes we would be close to the runway. More options? We might be able to glide in, should the slug be up to it, but I had my doubts. And with the Federation waiting for us, the base was no refuge. So would a landing some distance from the base be better than taking our chances with the Federation? No doubt, but that is indeed mountain country coming up and the odds of us surviving a crash there were nil.

_I will not give up!_

Rage would enable my triumph! I wanted to rip the windshield off and leave nothing between me and the air. Let it slice me to pieces. I wanted to grab and punch and kick at everything looming before me and everything dragging me to defeat. I would tear down the Curtain from the sky with my hands. I swore. Real embarrassing stuff. I never used such words ( _//Right.//_ ). Franton reached out her hand to me. I brushed it away. "We're going to make it!"  _If we have to get out and walk!_

We were still losing altitude but I thought at a slightly lower rate. It  _had_  looked for certain that we would fall short of the runway. Now . . . I wondered. Were the updrafts stirred by the Curtain helping us? It seemed possible that the ferocious buffeting we were taking had its good side. I yelled. We were going in, power or glide! We were going to make it!

Those very updrafts caused by the Curtain and helping us keep aloft, were inducing a nasty turbulence. The whole plane shook and began to bounce terribly. I held on to the emergency steering shaft, gimbaling with all my strength. I activated the emergency manual controls and felt a rumble below the floor. I looked to both sides and saw the wings extend in full and lock with two solid thuds. The cabin shook violently, but step one, the wings, was complete. I have seldom heard a more happy sound.  _I will not give up!_

The beacon was flickering again. I was unsure but it looked like thick smoke, surges of it, was obscuring it. The first time the beacon vanished for several seconds, my breathing stopped in shock.  _This is it._  Then the meatball was back. I could take anything else except losing the beacon. Time ceased for me when the beacon went out. The beacon is life, I whispered to myself. All we had to do was reach the beacon!  _(//Then what?//)_

Check overrides. With power surges all over the panels, I thought it prudent to power off everything remaining. I was worried the flight computers might turn on the distress signals. Not now!

I was starting to think that any decision I made would be the wrong one and there is a certain comfort in such a realization.

Slug status? The rudder and ailerons could be hand, and foot, powered, so the help screen had said. Indeed, manual controls were responding, if feebly. I continued to steer, sort of.

Begin final approach. The slug was angled slightly to the left of the runway, a pair of short dual strips that looked like a big equal sign. It didn't seem a major problem. I was confident the slug could be maneuvered back on track. So hold off on panic time.

But I think the dizziness was affecting me. I felt this irrational need to explain to Franton (to confess?) what I was doing. Was I in control, in whatever way you might want to interpret that? The overall situation was clear. But take it from her point of view. She probably suspected the pilot was losing it. All I needed was to talk. Every Auron has that need in their life.

I was starting to feel very dizzy.  _No. Not the. . ._

There was a lull in the updrafts and I took the opportunity to hard bank the slug. That brought it in line with the runway. Close enough.

"We're going to have to make an unpowered approach," my words foamed out. I still couldn't look at her. "We can do it!" I swallowed hard. One minute remaining. The aircar was hit by a huge wave of air and the slug shrieked, or was it me?

We were running short of miracles. "It's been a while since I did a glide landing." Something inside me... _I hope you don't mind._  (//Don't you mean . . .// //Shut up! Gods of all stars deliver me from tyranny and my sister!//) "But..." that was Franton, then she stopped.

I tried steadying myself; took a deep breath. The dizziness only increased. The damn beacon jumped and flickered and gyrated. Where there's smoke . . . "Hold on! Whatever you do," a shrill wind screamed over the wings, "don't . . .move!"

I don't know if she heard or understood me. The ground was coming up faster. Doughlump boulders and jagged trees rolled swiftly beneath us.

I was raving.  _//Li...//_  "Cover your face! Find something soft and nonflammable." I looked and saw to my horror that Franton was completely unstrapped and was reaching across her chair towards me.  _//Sis, is that you?// //No.// //Then. Oh, no . . . // //Li.//_

There was burning ground rushing up at us and then there was a huge blow to the aircar and we tilted crazily and I saw Franton's face look at me incredulous as she was yanked out of her seat and hit the cabin ceiling over me...I screamed.  _No time..._

There was a lake of yellow flame where there had been a forest. Ash gray waves and white lines of smoke slashing across. No dawn light, just smoke pouring up at us. The aircar shot through it and for a moment I saw the runway ahead. I tried lining up the plane but suddenly the manual controls were jammed . . .

Do I need them? We're on course. The beacon was still there. Only a short distance to go. I saw the two gray strips surrounded by burning trees. If I could reach the strips . . . A shudder broke over the aircar. For a moment, the steering control tore from my hand. We plunged.

I had to get her to help.

. _. . The Curtain was a wall and the stars were stretched to threads near breaking. The stars had been my sister's home and for a while mine. Now they were hidden, sealed in a trap, never to be released, soon to be gone forever . . ._

The turbulence increased, shaking my insides. There was a jackhammer vibration on the wings as the air around us was sucked into the conflagration with a roar of rage.  _I had to lower the landing gear_. The aircar dropped, faster.  _I had to . . ._

Drop the wheels manually. I held on to the steering shaft with both hands and began to turn the crank below with my left foot. The resistance was terrible - then a thud hit like something had rammed the underside. I looked below and held on the controls with one hand and spun like crazy the emergency release.

The slug twisted to the left and the first wheel locked. I began spinning the right release. Nothing happened. I tried rocking the plane one way then another. Nothing. Just the wheel flopping. Too late!  _I'm sorry. //Li...//_

The runway was cleanly divided into two strips now. Go for the grass between the strips. It was almost free of fire. The gray slabs of runway rush up to me but the angle is wrong.

There were trees like a advancing army. I hear my own scream again and sparks and smoke poured through the plane as the ground rushed past and a swath of steel gray then dull green shot up and I heard something hit with a tremendous bang and we spun out and I saw the sky crash into the earth. The plane twisted and with a lurch careened skidded off the runway into the forest.

My head wrenched around and I cried her name as we flipped and the last thing I saw was her thrown against the floor that had been the roof as something smashed into my sides and I gasped with pain as the breath tore out of me.

And then there was nothing but silence and black, black, black . . .

 

"She's faking."

I am alive. I hear voices, muffled, faraway, drifting past me. Not mental voices this time.  _Have you heard the joke about the telepath who went to the psychiatrist?_ The voices are like insects buzzing around my body; my mind hovered, bobbing above them.  _The telepath says he hears three voices in his mind. One is God._  They were not friendly. I sensed this when I was nudged by a pointed boot.  _The psychiatrist smiles and says, 'schizophrenic.'_  That is, it felt like a nudge for there was only a slight pressure to my side, no more hurtful than rolling onto a pillow.  _The telepath says the second is the devil._  I couldn't be hurt anymore.  _And the psychiatrist smiles and says, 'paranoid.' And the third voice is of her sister._  The smoke is like a wool blanket in my mouth; I can barely breath.  _The psychiatrist smiles and says: you must hate her. The telepath, exasperated asks: perhaps, but why the grin? And the psychiatrist replies, you'll never be cured and you get billed three times normal rate._

I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself.

My senses were blown so I didn't know if I was on the ground, being carried, or if I was going to be left there to die. Did I care? For one of the few times in my life I felt free, neither the weight of anger nor hatred, neither the drag of fear nor despair held me down. I called for my sister. There was no response. I did not panic. Was she more dazed than I? Was she dead? She can't die, unless I do, right? If this was dying, it was more pleasant that I had thought. Sorry, Sis.

What had happened?

"Maybe." The second voice wasn't sure. That made two of us. "Take a look at this other one. What a mess."

"Like I've never seen a dead person. Forget her. This is more pressing. You know, there is something about this one that looks familiar. I think she might just be the one our Groupleader told us about." There was a long pause. Was he checking something? I felt hands on my face and arms and I was turned on my back. "Anyway, she's alive."

"You're right. She does look like... You remember, several years ago . . ."

"'Cally.' 'Cally'! Only don't let anyone every hear you say that name. Yeah, that's who she looks like."

"Is it her?"

"No, stupid. It's one of her sisters."

"How should I know? Those Auron clones all look alike."

"Ha, ha. Real funny. I'm sure the Supreme Commander will enjoy your sense of humor."

There was an ominous pause, whispers rushed back and forth between them. "Who will know? Let me finish her off. I'd like to kill someone. This has just been too easy."

"No!"

"You're afraid."

"'Afraid,' he says. 'Too easy,' he says. Tell that to the boys in the fleet. We were lucky. A lot of them aren't going home. I tell you, this is her. And that means a reward."

"Which we'll never get. Aurons!" The disgust was palpable.

"Not just any Auron! The one the Commander told us to watch for."

"Look. I don't like this. We could get into a lot of trouble no matter what we do."

"You got that right. But we can't shoot her. They would track us down and hang us . . ."

"I thought Aurons smelled funny and had tails and horns."

"Didn't you ever go to school? They look just like us. That's why they're so dangerous. It's their minds that are different. Too different."

"They were human once, I know that. It's against nature, what they did. An evil wizard made them, that's what I heard. You can't trust them. Let's kill her now, use a rock or something to make it look like an accident."

"Shut up! Got that? Summon Medical, now!"

"All right. So you really think she's related to one of Blake's people? I mean we looked through the wreckage pretty thorough. There was nothing suspicious except this recorder."

"What did you expect: a flashing sign that said 'Top Secret - Don't Peek'? Files might be anywhere in that thing. And did  _you_  manage to get into that recorder? It has a lot of security on it. Let the bulbheads take the thing apart. We've done our bit. Yes, I do believe this is the one. Look at these readings."

A whistle. "Well, if she ain't dead, she's sure going to be. The Groupleader won't be happy."

He told him what he could do with the Groupleader. "Where's your ambition? And where's Medical when we need them?"

"I beeped them. She is a pretty one, come to think of it."

"Keep your distance, idiot. Aurons have diseases. You know, she must be tougher than she looks to have survived that."

There was more after that but even if I had cared, I was drifting further away. I seemed to be spiraling out then down into ever widening circles, like a bird searching above some haunted sea. I think my body was attached and then bound to some apparatus. I was being moved. Where was Sis?

 _//Here. Groggy, but here.//_   _//Welcome back.//_

Later, I hear different voices. "I am grateful. Target Two, the one called 'Li.' She will live?"

"Yes, Supreme Commander. She was injured in the crash of her vehicle and suffered a concussion. However, most vital signs have stabilized if at low levels, as you can see. There do not appear to have been significant internal injuries."

"Which have not?"

"Oh, 'not stabilized'? Her brain waves. Quite irregular, chaotic actually. I've never seen anything quite like her patterns."

"Identification confirmed. Have you had many Auron patients?"

"Certainly not, Supreme Commander!"

"Then such can hardly be in your experience. Continue to monitor her condition. On everything. This one worries me-there must be something significant in those brain patterns. When will  _I_  be able to question her?"

"It may be weeks, Supreme Commander." It is hard to convey the reluctance of that statement. Suffice it to say, it was damn reluctant.

"I will let that stand for now. What is the status of the other two?"

"Much worse than this one, Supreme Commander." The doctor(?)'s voice took on a crisp, efficient tone. "Targets Three and Four remain in critical condition. They should live, though it will be a several weeks as well before they will be ready for interrogation. Forgive me, but I fear our field care may be inadequate. I request permission to teleport them up to a hospital ship."

"Permission denied. Despite their condition, they will survive. Your caution is noted, however. Soon they will be teleported up, be assured of that."

"Understood, Supreme Commander."

"I do wish them all a quick recovery. I appreciate your work, Doctor. You have my confidence. Do not fail me."

"I will not fail, Supreme Commander."

Then she demanded: "And Target One?"

"A preliminary examination shows Target One to be in generally good condition. Surprising, considering the effects of the . . . "

"I am well aware of those effects.  _He_  would be! Oh, joyous day! Have him brought before me... No! I will go to him.  _I_  will bring him here. I want him to see this. This spectacle will prepare him. After that, you can teleport them up. All of them."

That startled me. Startled me that in all this there was something for me to be happy about. Who else could it be but Avon? Avon was alive! Did you hear that, Sis?  _//Yeah.//_  And he would be here soon!  _//Don't sound so happy.//_  Why I felt joy at that I do not know, but did I ever! Isn't an irrational joy better than none? I passed out again.

I was hovering close to the "surface". Below the shallow waters of this "ocean," I think I see a glimpse of a dark opening. A cave. I was drifting, barely conscious. Later, I hear Servalan's voice, husky, barely above a whisper. "Are you hearing any better, my love? I trust you are. Behold. All that remains of your juvenile actions."

His response was matter-of-fact. It would be easy to get the impression that Avon is indeed incapable of any emotion except curiosity. I never believed that. "They're alive?" he asked.

"Barely."

"What happened to her?"

"She does look better than the other two, does she not? You might say this was Li's lucky day. She lost only one of her nine Auron lives. She was in a plane crash, near this base. Her own stupidity, if I may say so. Fortunately, I was able to prevent my people from shooting her down. On occasion today my people did not act the most responsibly."

"She never was much of a pilot."

 _Gawd, what did I ever see in the man? //You?!// //Sis!// //All right, what did_  we  _ever see in the man?//_

"Are you interested in what happened to the others?"

"I can guess."

"Always so knowledgeable - aren't you - if never so wise. Very well, let's talk about . . .  ** _this_**." her voice took on an odd sound as she struggled to breath. "You know what this is, don't you? I gave it to Mykal, just before you left Earth. I've only listened to part of it. The security has not yet been fully broken. It's a meeting with the . . . ** _late_**  President Sarkoff. You know of that meeting?"

"I read the transcript."

"And that's all you know?"

"All."

"I'd want you to fill in the details. For my sake."

"Not interested."

"You never make it easy for me, do you? I lay the whole galaxy at your feet and you want  _anything_  else. I am yours and even that is not enough! Look at your friends, Avon. They will die without me. Their lives are mine to give or withhold. Even you cannot withstand my power. Such a poor memory! Need I remind you? Blake is dead, Avon. The rest of his band a dull footnote to a history no one would care to read, even if such were available. Do you really want to end like them? Could I possibly interest you in an alternative? Together, we can do things that will leave the galaxy gasping in astonishment."

"No."

"Reconsider! Very soon you will be teleported to my command ship. There we will review the contents of this device in full. You will tell me everything I want to know or I leave the consequences to your imagination. You believe that, don't you, Avon?"

 _It wasn't her usual voice. There was something odd about her breathing._  "I do," was all he said.

"I'm touched! Spoken like a marriage vow. How you make a girl hope! My belief, my hope, never dies, regardless how great your errors."

_The woman is so tasteless._

"Break the security. I must know what's in it. Everything."

Then: "Let me play something for you, Avon."

_What can I say? The man is exasperating. Bless him._

If there was anything further, I did not hear it. I felt myself a feather caught in a storm. I was hurled far beyond reality, pure consciousness skimming over existence, alive, alone. ( _//You aren't really alone, you know.//_ ) I was back in  _mindspace_ , the word like a warm mist of a thought weaved into me.

I knew now where I was and who had summoned me. I plunged below the turbulent surface and saw the sea cave shimmer before me. I swam through. I emerged and at once sensed something stir. The sea cave had air. I was breathing. I was under a brilliant white dome; the only sound was like puppywaves lapping at my feet. The sound was my name.

//Li . . . Li . . . Li . . . //

The Entity had returned. As usual, its timing was awful.

//You?// I asked, stupidly.

( _//Who were you expecting?//_ )

//Yes.// It was a sad voice, like an echo of a cry of defeat. //Here to help.//  _Here to cause trouble, you mean._  It said nothing further, merely rummaged around my mind as if it had a perfect right to do so.

Finally, it said, its voice clear: //We need to talk.//

Great Men, Great Loses

==========================================================

 **Date** : 07/12/221

 **Subject** : Preliminary Interrogation of Auron prisoner Mykal Hodos.

 **Security Category** :  ** _Top Secret_**

 **Interrogator** : Dev Tarrant

 **Location** : Prison Infirmary 27, room 202, Servalan City, Earth.

Note: The prisoner was injured in capture during the battle of Lindor and has spent the past several weeks recovering.

 **Concerns** : It is regretted that the injuries of the prisoner, compounded by concussion and burns, as well as the usual stress factors affecting non-combatants, may have impaired memories of critical events.

 **Cautions** : There also is likely deliberate withholding efforts. As is clear in the Q&A that follows, more than once the prisoner exhibited defiance and hostility to the Federation. Subject's planet of origin implies obvious incentives to lie or mislead. It is suggested, however, that aspects of his reticence may indeed be beyond conscious control. Confirmation awaits more intensive interrogation efforts subsequent to this one.

 **Comments** : The Supreme Commander has informed Federation Security that the subject has acceded to the position of the Leader of the Auron Community in Exile. Hence, he is to be treated as a very important prisoner. His new title, of which the subject is probably unaware, is not to be mentioned or discussed, however.

 **Recommendations** : Full interrogation of the subject should be delayed until recovery is complete. Moreover, his two fellow captives, J. M. Stannis [ **click here [*] for additional data** ] and the Auron known as "Li" [one of two sisters of the dead political criminal "Cally" [ **click here [*] for additional data** ] remain in physical and/or mental states that range from fair to serious. Full and systematic interrogation should therefore await complete recovery for all three. At that time questioning is to be conducted simultaneously in a coordinated, concerted effort.

 **Opinion** : It is the opinion of the interrogator that all required information can be obtained, given patience. As this clearly is the intent of the Supreme Commander, nothing is to be gained by rushing. Worse, critical information may be lost unless extreme care is taken.

Note: There is no reason to believe any of the captives have sufficient strength to resist Federation methods.

 **Speculation** : Is there something about Aurons that leaves them predisposed to forgive and to admire the former Lord Protector? Despite the fact that witness testimony and the results of an autopsy prove that K. Avon did fire the fatal shots that killed President Sarkoff of Lindor, and despite his known history of treachery, the Auron's "Li" and Mykal refuse to draw the logical conclusion. Only J. Stannis, in her fragmented testimony, seems to understand and appreciate the dangerous logic of this man.

**[** **Data on K. Avon not accessible.]**

**Operation** : Admission to the hypermedia files can be obtained following security procedures. Standard interface rules apply. Following admission, an operator may proceed either linearly, or branch into greater detail by placing the "boot" icon over the image of the subject in question or by using the following command strokes:

**[o] One click to expand context-dependent detail.**

[o] Two clicks to broaden the overall context.

[o] Three clicks for a complete file dump (available in all standard formats).

Press here now for:

[o] Subject's vital statistics.

[o] Database information

[o] Interrogation transcripts.

 **Q** : Your doctors inform me that you have recovered sufficiently to begin limited interrogation. However, having learned to temper my trust in doctors, I intend to verify that assessment before proceeding. Can you hear and understand me?

 **A** : Yes. Experienced, are you?

 **Q** : Quite.

 **A** : I'm impressed. I have a question.

 **Q** : First things first. We are going to be spending considerable time together and I want you to fully understand what that implies. You have an interest in history?

 **A** : Yeah. And so do you, I bet. I am sure you are familiar with my file.

 **Q** : Naturally. My point being that not all Aurons share your interest.

 **A** : Some Auron families are very secretive about their past, going so far as to destroy family records as soon as they are no longer of use. But those are... _were_...the exception.

 **Q** : Your family, Hodos, was certainly not like that.

 **A** : No. My family was more typical. They were quite attached to their history. It was, in fact, the foundation of their life. Oops, I forgot. The Federation killed them all.

 **Q** : The observation is meaningless. Were the power yours, you would slay as well.

 **A** : Good point. I believe some of us would.

 **Q** : Talk of possibilities is idle; let us return to history. You will find as you surmised that I am quite attached to history, yours in particular. I am curious enough to desire to know much more about you, Mykal.

 **A** : Call me Mr. Hodos.

 **Q** : You had a question. Do you wish it answered?

 **A** : Yes. Are Li and Jenna alive?

 **Q** : They are.

 **A** : Thank you. No doubt their continuing in that state is contingent upon how cooperative I am.

 **Q** : Cooperation is always a factor.

 **A** : And Avon?

 **Q** : Kerr Avon is dead. I cannot discuss him further.

 **A** : I expected that answer, and yet, something inside of me tells me that the proposition is not proved. But thank you for telling me. I know you're only doing your job.

 **Q** : Duty is also a factor; one that will loom larger as the interrogation continues. Again, I must remind you there is much my superiors are eager to learn. I intend to proceed at my own pace, though that may change. But for now, I believe there are rewards to patience which might be overlooked in a headlong rush to truth.

I would like to begin with recent events. My superiors are particularly concerned about the events surrounding your capture. Things sometimes did not go as planned during Operation Meteor and it appears that several questions remain unresolved.

 **A** : So things didn't go well, what a shame! May I ask another question?

 **Q** : One more. Be brief.

 **A** : Who taught you? Why do you do this?

 **Q** : My background? Of course, I apologize for omitting it. I was a rival of Shrinker, or perhaps a "colleague" is a better way to put it. You may have heard the name. He had a profound influence on the day-to-day operations of the Federation. To give him his due, he was an excellent interrogator and an inspiration. My fellows learned much from him, but I temper my admiration with a criticism. He was prone to conflate zeal with skill; to rush into methods more severe than the situation warranted. Unlike many, I feel I have improved upon his methods and style, in both sophistication and subtlety-I have excellent performance ratings, by the way. As for 'why,' there are 'who's' and 'what's' and 'when's' here, but there are no 'why's.'

Now, since you are so interested about my work, would you like me to explain more about some of our principles before we begin? Knowledge in this instance might speed the process along.

 **A** : I'm sure that is the intent.

 **Q** : We have discovered that when time is available, which unfortunately is often not the case, that the prisoner can be led to tell us everything he knows with little application of direct force. Brute force methods are useful, naturally, when time is pressing but they are not nearly as efficient in complex situations as one might think. Frequently they induce distortions as potentially misleading as deliberate lies and are much harder to detect. They are also risky to the lives of the client and dead clients are notoriously poor sources of information.

 **A** : Get on with it.

 **Q** : Who was with you as you were escaping the capitol of Lindor the night of the Operation?

 **A** : Lee Hahn, Jenna Stannis, and myself.

 **Q** : No others?

 **A** : We had an escort of several soldiers, I think at least a dozen, but there may have been more. They were in the accompanying escort vehicles - part of a convoy, I suppose. There was no one else that I was aware of.

 **Q** : No one of prominence?

 **A** : No. None.

 **Q** : You recall any of the soldier's names?

 **A** : Don't be ridiculous. I never met any of them. They were all dead soon enough. Having trouble identifying them?

 **Q** : Avon was not with you?

 **A** : No. You know that.

 **Q** : Some of these questions are of a confirmational nature. I trust you don't mind. What was your destination?

 **A** : We were trying to get to a base, one away from the Lindor Capitol; there was a starship. The hope was that there might be enough time to escape. Oh, well.

 **Q** : Was that the starship with the name of  _Sword of Auron_?

 **A** : You got it.

 **Q** : You were traveling toward this base where the starship was located. How?

 **A** : You mean by what means? We were in some kind of high speed surface vehicles, ground effect I suppose. All military vehicles, of course. I know nothing beyond that. Things were rather rushed. Did you expect I would be taking notes?

 **Q** : I will get back to that. Why was 'ambassador' Hahn with you?

 **A** : President Sarkoff wanted him off Lindor. He realized that Lee Hahn would not survive Federation occupation. Neither did he.

 **Q** : And Sarkoff's daughter, Tyce, the wife of the 'ambassador'?

 **A** : I don't know. It was my understanding she had left Lindor.

[Note: it seems likely that Tyce Sarkoff's decision to remain on Lindor was indeed unanticipated, even by members of her closest family. I chose for the time being not to enlighten the prisoner on that matter, since it is unclear what, if any, his relationship was to her. He seemed to care for her, but as he seems to care for many people, we have merely identified another point of possible exploitation and there are already more than sufficient.]

 **Q** : Describe what happened leading up to the moment the convoy was attacked.

 **A** : We left the capital late that evening. As far as I could see almost all civilian traffic had been cleared from the main highways. We had a straight shot out, but even at the speed we were going, it would have taken hours before we reached the base . . .

 **Q** : Continue.

 **A** : We must have been close to the base at the time of the attack; it had to have been nearing dawn. I had fallen asleep. Look, who cares? Why do you want to hear this from me?

 **Q** : You would be surprised how much can sometimes be learned by comparing different versions of a given event. Continue.

 **A** : I recall us coming to a sudden stop. I was thrown forward against the restraints. There were voices outside, very hard to understand. It was several seconds before I realized how serious things were. Then I started to hear a lot of other sounds, like blasts and the sizzle of energy weapons, at least that is what I assumed they were. The blasts gave you an instant headache so you could hardly forget those. When I got out with Jenna and Lee I saw explosions and beam flares in all directions. Initially, it seemed the Lindor soldiers were answering, even outgunning them. That situation didn't last long.

 **Q** : How long  _did_  the fighting last?

 **A** : Less than five minutes, I think. I'm not sure. I was ordered by Jenna to keep low. I presume she meant to keep out of her way. There was not much cover available and Jenna had to lead me to it. In fact, she did not leave me, surprisingly since I figured she liked nothing more than a good fight. At one point the fighting stopped, but it was only a brief lull. Lee Hahn remained calm and dignified throughout, more than I can say for myself. I mean, this was a fire fight, and he looked like he was at a library. Maybe he was resigned to his fate and I remember thinking that was truly frightening.

Jenna had a hold of my wrist and was pulling me along. She had a gun out but wasn't firing. It was quite dark; terribly confusing. None of us had night vision equipment.

Yet, I had followed her this far, so why not continue? Once we were out in the open, well from the highway, I glanced back and could see the Ambassador running, trying to catch up. I was thinking he wasn't running very well. Several troopers surrounded us, shielding us. Then people were starting to fall. There were explosions and energy bolts that sliced right through anything they touched. That was when Jenna pushed me to the ground. I looked up and saw the Ambassador. He stooped to pick up a weapon . . .

He was shot right then. He crumbled and Jenna ran over to him. Something must have hit her too, knocking her over in a wild tumble. Then everything went out for me. The next thing I knew, I was on Earth with people like you asking me stupid questions.

 **Q** : You were lucky, as was your companion. The unit was under strict orders to take the three of you alive. Unfortunately, your escort proved more spirited in its resistance than had been anticipated. Before their commanding officer was able to regain control, quite a lot of killing took place. I repeat, you and your companion were lucky. It is regretted Ambassador Hahn was killed.

 **A** : The Ambassador died a hero. He told me that night a quote that obviously meant a great deal to him. You have a love for remembered details? Here is one I won't forget:  _There is nothing over which a free man ponders less than death. His wisdom is to meditate not on death, but on life._

 **Q** : A noble sentiment.

 **A** : Think about it. Anything else you want to know?

 **Q** : You mentioned earlier "taking notes." You had been given a gift from the Supreme Commander, a device popularly known as a "recorder." Given your fugitive status, your possession of it became illegal. However, it was not on you at the time of your capture, but was instead found with the Auron "Li". Why had the transfer taken place?

 **A** : I was worried the thing might be left behind; fall into the wrong hands. I felt it would be safer with her. I guess we were destined to lose it.

 **Q** : Tell us in your own words what was on the recorder.

 **A** : [Long pause] Personal stuff.

 **Q** : Come, Mr. Hodos, we know what is on the device and in great detail. There is no point in trying to hide the knowledge it contained.

[Note: It was advisable to continue the deception as long as possible to extract information. Regrettably, we have at this stage only a limited idea of the recorder's contents.]

 **A** : Here's a clue. Let's just say that what is talked about in various files is going to cheerfully blow the Federation to hell one day along with Servalan and the whole of her rotten gang.

 **Q** : Your political opinions are irrelevant. Let's get to the point. We want to know much more about "nanotechnology."

 **A** : [Another pause, shorter] Too bad. The sad fact is that everyone who could tell you the critical information is dead.

 **Q** : Like your teacher, Dr. Geir?

 **A** : You  _do_  know a lot. Thank you for reminding me that the Federation murdered him as well. Sorry to disappoint you, but Geir was not working on nanotechnology.

 **Q** : We believe his researches do have bearing.

 **A** : An interesting thought. Your superiors must be smarter than they look. Anyway, how would you know it had any basis as all his work was  _supposedly_ destroyed? You're wasting your time. Geir was searching for 'morphic' fields, fields of information that guide the forms and patterns of life. Maybe when properly understood, the fields will have something to do with nanotechnology. Who knows? Eventually everything ties together, doesn't it?

 **Q** : Then tell us what you do know.

 **A** : Sorry to disappoint you, but I only have the vaguest idea of what "nanotechnology" is and again without the critical details, which took Auron science and technology decades, you won't be able to duplicate it. With Clinician Franton dead, and I doubt you would be questioning me on this if she were alive, the details are unattainable. I can't tell you any more. Wait a minute, since Servalan  _gave_  the recorder to me, how can it possibly be illegal?

 **Q** : By the uses you have put it to. You violated her trust. This technology was an Auron Invention?

 **A** : I'm not denying it.

 **Q** : And you knew nothing of this technology prior to your encounter on "Kaarn" with the Aurons Pater and Franton?

 **A** : No. Nothing at all. As I said, Geir and I had never considered anything like it. Well, if he did, he never mentioned it to me. It's one of those things that's obvious only in retrospect.

 **Q** : Describe the technology, in your own words.

[Note: What follows is a high-level discourse on nanotechnology. Since none of the statements offers any new information, I have placed it in an auxiliary data file-see the linked [NANOTECH] folder.]

WARNING: Access to this file requires the highest security level clearance! Do not attempt access unless you have authentication level 9.

 **Q** : That will do for now. Subsequent interrogations will probe in detail all aspects of your activities since leaving Earth. Welcome back.

 **A** : Go boil your head. I demand to see Li and Jenna!

 **Q** : You may be given opportunity to submit requests later. For now my superiors have taken the decision out of both our hands. You will see your fellow criminals, if at all, when the Supreme Commander orders it.

 **A** : I won't give up.

 **Q** : Neither will we.

To Grace in Captive Bonds

The magtrain shot through the tunnel full throttle, fleeing into damp, wind-rushed darkness. Three cars made up the "train", three cars separated in space by many kilometers, tied by electronics and electromagnetism. A guard ship fore and trailing, both crammed with soldiers and weaponry. The center car differed, however. It held but three passengers; though one was armed, none were soldiers. Who were they? One was the former President of Lindor, recently resigned, wearing still his stylish hat and cape.  _He deserves our respect_. The second was his daughter, his confident and advisor, few titles, many longings.  _She deserves our sympathy_. Finally, a third. We should fear him, it is whispered. He has no title, has been bereft of one for months. Who is he?  _Guess._  Occasionally, this passenger had an acerbic thought regarding his fate, now greatly diminished. Life of little point and less merit, these thoughts formed the decaying base of a typical mood.

Yes, Avon was the third passenger. He watched the tunnel lights flare up like sparks, streak by like lightning. He felt the throbbing pulse of the engines, heard the whine of wind, sensations stressed to a snap that somehow relaxed him. And it was on that pure level of sensation that he with titles gone, luxuriating in the lack of link to the sanguinary civilization and society that had bestowed them, was untroubled. He would outrun them all; of that he was confident. Was it from amusement then that he carried the gun? Of the three, he was in fact the least inclined to use it.

They had left the capitol of Lindor over an hour earlier, shortly before midnight it was, following Sarkoff's reluctant declaration of war. Sarkoff was resigned now, in more ways than one. There had been some planning put into this dash, but at this hour, in these circumstances, it was more hope than plan. An underground flight to an abandoned military base made little sense against the teleport-equipped Federation, but it would have to do. For at the abandoned base serving as a temporary port was a worthy goal: a single enormous starship. If by luck they could make it, there was a chance for escape. That was the hope that powered the plan. The base was 900 kilometers from the city. They were traveling over 300 kilometers/hour and had crossed the halfway point when the first alarm came in.

The two awake took it calmly; Sarkoff's daughter, Tyce did not awaken. Admittedly, the alarm had not been unanticipated. They had not expected this to be easy and while their hatred for the Federation was never greater, equal was their respect for its technical capabilities and the brilliance of its implacable leader. Whatever splenetic reactions might once have been uttered were lost in a past that was as rapidly vanishing as the kilometers behind them. Tyce, her head on her father's shoulder, breathed softly. If there was any reproof in any mind, former President Sarkoff came the closest, and it was for her.  _She should be with her husband. In death they would at last be together._

Avon sat, content to observe the transport tube as it flashed by, slower now. The technology of the car would have permitted them to replace the speed smoothed gray walls with a pleasant country or rugged nature scene, or more besides. He wanted no such thing. Reality was all that mattered here and Avon, like his host, had never declined reality. The tunnel satisfied Avon in a way that offered a kind of symmetry to his life: a solid unswerving direction beneath surface appearances.

And like Avon, Sarkoff had been impassive these final hours. The release from the burden of power was not without compensation. Cruel misfortune? Hardly. Nearing death, he had seldom felt so alive.

He glanced at Avon as the alarm came in. He was beginning to like the man and that alarmed him. Here they could assess their humanity and in a way that had eluded them both actually talk to each other. Two strong men: it was all so empathetic, so dreadful, so alarming.

"There's an obstruction up ahead, man-made no doubt," Sarkoff said blandly. "It appears to have happened fairly recently. We're going to have to stop in less than a minute. My people tell me we can try to continue using surface transportation."

"Has such been requested?"

"The codes have been relayed. No response as yet."

Avon, looking at Tyce, completed his thought.  _I would not anticipate any._  "Are your people ready?"

For a moment Sarkoff thought he saw sympathy in those eyes.  _I must be mistaken. Sympathy is the last thing I want; from him or anyone. It is also the last thing he would give._ "They are ready. By the way, I am assuming  _she_  will want  _you_  alive."

"We all want things."

Sarkoff looked at him curiously.  _Was he contemplating death in battle?_  So unnecessary. The thought was shocking in its naked reality.  _Avon is of far greater value to humanity alive, no matter who he serves._

A second message came through, more telling than the first. The ever decorous Sarkoff digested it and signed off firmly. "It is indeed our friends. All tunnels ahead are cut off." He glanced at his daughter. She stirred but did not awaken.

"If they know that much, they will have seized the literal 'high-ground' as well." Avon concluded, looking pointed at Tyce.  _Their intelligence must be very good._  He said vapidly, "There is no escape."

Sarkoff brushed her hair gently.  _There is a blunt kindness in him._  "Now that I am no longer President, I am free to do the impossible."

_Then be prepared to die._

It was not callousness that prompted Avon to such thoughts. It was cogency. Avon had never betrayed his mind; saw no need in pretend for the benefit of others. Cynics might have said that such a pretense was only a matter of time, but that time for Avon had not yet come. The car decelerated rapidly.

When it came to a complete halt, Sarkoff leaned forward, studying the observation monitor. They were in a switching and maintenance area, a vast circle framed by a low ceiling, lighting stark, efficient. He concluded they were not totally hemmed in and irrationally that gave Sarkoff hope. There were elevators here, large and swift. A rush to the surface might not be out of the question. For a few. It might work.

Sarkoff saw soldiers leaping out of the lead car ahead, forming battle positions. From behind, one of the displays informed him the trailing third car was rapidly approaching. He instructed the car door to be opened. Avon was the first to stand. the first out. Sarkoff and an unsteady Tyce, awakening with a yawn, followed. He wrapped his cloak tightly around them both as they exited.

The tunnel was damp and cold, black puddles everywhere reflecting shimmering shapes; smells musty and saturated with ozone permeated the air. For those who appreciated stark drama, this was not a bad staging. The throb of compressors beat above them, the ventilation fans hummed scorched air. It was suffocating.

Avon looked above, saw dripping condensation on the walls.  _I can't get out of here._

"Laughing, Avon?" Tyce demanded wearily, straightening herself.

"No." There were rumblings down the length of the tunnel, burrowing through the ground. That was the third car, slowing with a screech to a stop a short distance behind.

Men pursued by shadows flowed around them, racing, taking up, then abandoning positions. By reflex, Avon put his hand on his gun, but did not draw it. Twenty, forty, soldiers, he estimated. Perhaps enough to beat back a first and less than determined Federation effort.  _They might not know who they had and drop the fight._  But not against anything larger. Teleport shock troops would make quick work of them. How far down were they? Not far enough to escape the teleport, of that he was certain.

The commander of the lead car was running towards them. Avon ignored him, tried to see ahead into tunnels radiating away, looking for the ominous green twinkling. The artificial lights overhead were few, brilliant, blazing, strung burning out along the roof high overhead like candles at a funeral. In the distance it was all darkness, damp and dead. The ineluctable Federation should be appearing soon.

The train engines beat with the ventilation fans. The sound was that of a dying heart . . .

The commander stopped before the ex-President and quickly saluted. His voice was a gasping growl. "President Sarkoff," he began and who would correct him? "We have reports the Federation is using the Curtain weapon. They have punctured the main transportation arteries down to a depth of several hundred meters. We can go no further even using alternate tunnels."

Avon thought:  _Should I care?_

"How far are we from the base?" Sarkoff grappled with inner inertia.

"Slightly under two hundred kilometers. But it would take hours on the surface."

Sarkoff nodded. Their chances now were nil. He held Tyce's hand. She was less dazed now, more controlled, showing no emotion other than weariness. Even staring at Avon, her face was not quite up to summoning full contempt.

Might have beens. Sarkoff had not wanted to travel this way, but his military people had overruled him. They had thought this mode the safest. Sarkoff had chosen not to dispute them. Had it not been for the Curtain, and Federation teleport capacity, neither well understood and for those reasons greatly feared, his advisors might have been correct. He respected his military, but had never been particularly fond of them. He had no respect whatever for his intelligence organizations. Nevertheless, even with his daughter and his world trapped, objurgation failed him.

Avon's attention remained fixed on the tunnel.

"Can they teleport down this far?" asked Sarkoff.

"Easily." That was Avon.

Sarkoff spoke directly to him. "There is still power.  _You_  can reach the surface." There were independent power stations all along the line. For the Federation to have destroyed them would have required an attack of total annihilation and that was clearly not the intent.  _She wants this man alive, therefore..._

The freight elevators could get them all to the surface. But working under the assumption that only the good die young, Sarkoff had in mind but two for the escape attempt. The decision was not actually his to make, but he felt certain Avon would not dispute him. "I'm ordering you and Tyce to the surface," he said confidently, as if they hadn't already figured it all out. "I'll try to get an escort to follow." Avon said nothing.

"No!" Tyce cried. "I will not go with him. I'm staying with you!"

Sarkoff was calm, his voice matter of fact. "Tyce, your duty is towards your husband. Find him. It's an order."

"You don't give orders anymore, Father. Not to me, not here, not ever."

Then Avon saw green twinkling. Then puffs of dust.  _She knew._

There were shouts and firing; Avon enveloped Sarkoff and Tyce in his arms, and all three crashed to the ground. He had seen it, but almost too late. The others had not realized what it meant. The Lindor officer, turning to rally his men, dropped at once.

 _I am a fool. With plenty of company_. The sea-green phosphorescence grew amid the crackle and mad hum of power weapons bursting above them. In moments, grim memory assured him, Federation teleportation commandos would be swarming over the area.

The Lindor soldiers returned the fire, as lights above them began to fail. The power was being cut. Avon, Sarkoff and Tyce stayed on the ground, Avon trying to see the way to the elevator. He at least knew the direction; knew there was a well-protected stairwell to the loading platform. Such might offer cover. He tried to speak when the tunnel burst with a sunburst of light, followed by a reverberating and deafening concussion.

Sarkoff rose his head slightly. To Avon he said, his voice a croak. "Get her out."

Avon pointed to the concrete embankment and the access stairs. The lighting was almost gone. The rumbling in the ground faded. "They will take their time," he said. "Pick your people off one by one, until they narrow it down." Surgical is the byword.  _It's not the Federation way, but in this instance, it would be the way of their Commander._  He had seldom been more certain.

He would wait no longer. He poised himself, like a runner at ready, judging the distance to the staircase as the cavern went pitch black. If the Federation hesitated, if they were being cautious, the two of them might indeed be able to make it. He would shield Tyce for the dash. But the elevator itself had no cover. He would have to leave Tyce at the base of the stairwell, summon the elevator and then retrieve her. Question: Did the Federation want Tyce? He doubted it. Beside her now, he could see her stare at him.  _Did he?_

Avon took Tyce by one arm. She violently tried to shake it free only to be astonished by the strength of the his grip. The two rose, he pulled her tight to him, and they ran.

 

So much that was logical; so much that was in error. There was a flaw in Avon's premises, and therein lie the reason for the failure of his proof. Like most, Avon had overestimated the swiftness and success of the Federation attack. The attack had been a success, to be sure, but it was hardly a victory as clean and as fast as its commanders had planned. Operation Meteor called for the breaching of the Lindor system parameter defenses in three hours, storming the home world and its capitol in six, planetary capitulation to follow before noon, local Capitol time, a 12-hour military plan as precise as, well, a train schedule. So confident had Servalan's front commanders been of a shattering victory, that despite misgivings, they yielded the honors of the ground assault to the Special Services. Let the record state that to Servalan's credit, she had not fully shared the optimism of her commanders. Not at all, in fact. In truth, her stomach churned whenever she thought of the attack, but her special "intuition" assured her of the ultimate attainment of all significant objectives. Thus, there was no need to stand in the way of her people. Since the triumph against the Citadel, the Special Services had itched for another opportunity to demonstrate their superiority to the regular military. So the orders were given and what little remained in the way of restraint vanished.

In reality, every aspect of the operation took twice as long as planned, the Clauswitzian notion of battle "friction", nearly a millennium old now, taking a fearsome toll. Losses had been estimated to be thirty ships destroyed and seventy severely damaged. They were ten times greater. By the time the Combined Fleet had invested Lindor, and the Special Services were sacking the Capitol and its environs, all discipline, never that firm in certain elements to begin with, had broken down. The question would be asked: was the lack of control and indifference endemic or a result of unusual circumstances? Who could tell? The shock troops leading the assault knew only that the Combined Fleet had its hands full. For the next several hours, they would be on their own. Victory delayed would not be allowed to become revenge denied.

Staggered by the losses they had experienced, astonished by the ferocity of the resistance, those Federation high commanders who had not already given up, looked the other way as the carnage on the planet mounted. In truth, there was little they could have done. For the most part, orbiting overhead in their electronic command stations, few were close to the fighting or had any clear idea of its ferocity. None realized how far things had gone. They would have done their best to put a stop to it if they had - their terror of failing Servalan's objectives far outweighing their respect for Lindor's defenses. But as it turned out, only exhaustion brought an end to the killing. For the duration, the rush to revenge was overpowering.

And the maximum leader herself was no help. Once she had seen the vision of Avon caught in the web of her power once more, her mind floated far away from the reality of the fighting on Lindor or anywhere else for that matter. On the monitors, battle statistics were but a political datum to be dealt with at some other time. Once noted, the realities of the conflict ceased to be relevant. The details of the fighting against the stellar confederacy were filtered out. Her interest focused solely on the conquest of one man.

 

Avon had gauged correctly the goals of the operation: Sarkoff and the fugitives, most of all himself, the highest prize, were to be taken  _alive_. But in the tunnels as he and Tyce raced to escape, rage and fear were now issuing the Federation orders. Instead of companies of crack Special Services troops with precisely aimed stun weapons, methodically moving forward - a more drastic, less discriminate weapon was about to come into play.

In the depths of the tunnels, where combat would have been reduced to its most hellish hand-to-hand essentials, the decision was made. Not knowing and not caring that Target One of the operation lie in their sights, the Special Services grabbed for the perfect weapon for this place to put an end to the fight. It was a plasma wave weapon, one that would sweep all before it under a blast of infrared radiation, and in the concentrated damp of the tunnels, superheated steam.

 

Avon and Tyce fought each other to their stairs. That is, she fought him, balking, kicking, clawing, shrieking every step of the way. Normally, even she would have been no match, but in the confusion and turmoil, just as they reached the stairwell, she managed to trip him. She rammed her elbow into him and twisted loose and for all her effort fell flat. She tried to get up and get away. Avon recovered, hit her full speed, grabbed her and both splashed into the mud. The mess resulted in a temporary truce.

"I won't go with you!" she yelled. Avon, gasping, was impressed. He was certain he had at least knocked the wind out of her but apparently nothing silenced Tyce.

He was not inclined to argue. He estimated the time required to run up the stairs and reach the elevator controls. In one running lunge he would be up the stairwell. The elevator controls were just beyond. Mere seconds in total. Saying nothing, not even looking at her, he calmly let her go. She tore away, but did not leave.  _Like me, she must be curious._

"I'm going to call the elevator," he said.  _I have been here before._  He could feel her glowering at him.

Avon glanced quickly around then ran leaping up the stairs. At the top, he waited a few seconds, then crawled, rolled over, scraping hands and knees until colliding with the base of the elevator shaft. Not to get overly confident, he assured himself, but the dearth of shots in his direction seemed to be a good sign. Keeping low, he moved his hand slowly up to the call button. There were flashes of light all up and down the tunnel, arcs illuminated dust boils, but still no shots near the elevator.

In fact, the Federation firing was dying down. That did not seem right to him. He pressed the button, made a quick calculation. The car would be there in twenty seconds.

He crawled rapidly back to the stairwell. At the edge, he looked down. No point in trying to find her if she had left, but in the dim light he could see Tyce was still there. Not in the well, but beside it. He called her name, but there was no response. Avon sighed.  _Every step of the way._  He entered the stairwell and began moving down the stairs.

It was at that moment he heard something like a whistle, rising in shrieking pitch then collapsing to dead silence. He had not quite reached the bottom, was still inside the stairwell, shielded thus by concrete and metal. So in one of the great miracles of his life, he had sufficient protection when the plasma wave hit. It tore through the air, pushing it forward in one superheated and pressurized mass, spitting lightning and vomiting fire, searing everything before in microseconds. Inside the stairwell, the bulk of the wave was deflected around him. The very speed of the bolt too aided his survival. Had it lingered, it would have incinerated his lungs. As it was, by the time he fell to the base of the stairs, it was over. For several moments, he could not hear and there is so much dust he could barely see.

He crawled out of the stairwell, stunned. Tyce should have been there. Some time later, under the dirt and debris, he did find her. Around him now was a horrible flame-lit stillness.  _So very quiet._

Clearing the debris away, he found her barely alive. Her clothing was charred. Her skin was loose and flaking. One look at her face and he guessed her senses were nearly destroyed. Putting his head near hers, he could hear the breath of whisper: "It hurts so much. Lee?"

There was an area of her neck that had not been burned. Slowly, he pressed her neck with gentleness with the back of his hand. She managed a weak smile. She died at that moment.  _No more pain, forever_.

The elevator by now had reached the ground floor, but it no longer mattered. As Avon stood, he saw no point of going to the surface. Whatever his fate would be, it would be met here. He would return to Sarkoff, if by some miracle he were still alive, and tell him what had happened. Then he would surrender to the Federation.

He had not been seriously hurt, but he was in shock. Shards of memory of the tunnel explosion that had began this odyssey over a year before imploded on him. He stumbled to the twisted and burned remains of the maglev cars.  _Why had he ever thought it meant anything?_  The stillness haunted him. He did not know that he was temporarily deaf, not in his senses but in his mind.

For the first time he pulled out his hand weapon. He stumbled past, over the bodies crumpled and scattered in the faint red glows; over to the smoldering remains of Sarkoff's car. The ground was baked and brittle, giving a fragile quality to each crunching step. But the sensation was tactile only. He continued to hear nothing.

Sarkoff's car was a crumpled ruin pitched on its side, like a giant foot had kicked it in. Avon stopped and looked around. All fighting had ceased. Had anyone been left alive?

But a second miracle did indeed await him. There was Sarkoff, having propped himself up against the wreckage on the opposite side. It was a heroic effort; he looked like he would topple over at any moment. Like Avon, he had been shielded from the blast, though not as effectively. Sarkoff had been moved behind the car and was a short distance from it when the wave hit. A brief respite won.

Avon supported him with his free arm. Sarkoff was in bad shape. His hat and cloak had been burned off. There was no point in dwelling on the man's appearance.  _He might live a while._

"Avon," he asked, his voice ruined. "Tyce?"

Avon could see the man's lips move, but his voice sounded far away, like a faint echo. "I left her in the elevator," was all he could say. "She insisted I return for you." Sarkoff seemed to hear what he said. Avon did himself, but barely.

Sarkoff looked off into the distance. He could hear the sounds of boots crunching and scraping. "I was warned I couldn't trust you. There's not much time."

Avon did not respond.

"Yes, I am perceptive," Sarkoff tried laughing, but the effort brought appalling pain. One of his lungs, badly injured, had collapsed. "I will not live on their terms, and am in no shape to finish the job. Try not to fail me again."

Avon put his arm around his back to steady the man. He couldn't hold Sarkoff much longer.

"You can be quick. Of that I am certain," Sarkoff stared at him. "I won't forgive them. They ruined my hat."

Sarkoff heard the confident shouts, the triumphant stamping of Federation commandos approaching. "They're almost here. Don't disappoint them." He whispered: "Kill me now."

The Federation troops were surrounding them, closing in cautiously. Avon moved the gun closer to Sarkoff. There was a hum like sandpaper rubbing through his body. He fired once, then again. Sarkoff's body convulsed, then collapsed to his feet.

Avon turned slowly to the troops, lowering his hand and dropping the gun.  _Thank me. I spared you the bother of killing an enemy. Consider yourself again in my debt._  And with a chilling smile, raised his arms in surrender.

For these, the victors, there could be no mistake. This was Avon, Target One. The lead Special Services Sergeant approached him in awe, yet managing a good impression of a triumphant swagger. He ordered his men to seize Avon as he strode up before him. "Ex-Lord Avon," he said, retrieving the weapon. "Many would kill you, gladly."

Avon looked at him like he was unsure of what language the gurgling sounds issuing from the creature could possibly be. He thought he understood the word "kill" but was this answer acceptable? He did not care. "She would have you garroted," seemed altogether appropriate.

The Sergeant must have considered that as Avon was forced from behind to his knees. "It might be worth it." Avon could not understand what had been said. The words sounded like water swirling down a drain.

The sergeant gave a rough gesture and Avon's arms were bound tightly behind his back; restraints were slapped on his hands and legs. Finally, teleport bracelets were snapped on his wrists. He was tied and pitched to the ground like a sack. He did not resist.

The sergeant walked around the captive, then knelt beside him, sounding almost apologetic. "You understand they got excited. This sometimes happens. You're both lucky. No, she won't be happy about Sarkoff's death, but you killed him, not us. Isn't that right? You are alive and that's what matters." He stopped, stooped down closer and looked directly at Avon. "Yes, the Supreme Commander  _would_  have fried us all if we hadn't brought  _you_  back in one piece." He shouted: "More than adequate compensation!" then leaped to his feet. "The survivors might well envy the dead, were there any. You are the last. Traitor!" He kicked Avon. "Raise him to his feet."

He jammed the retrieved gun into his back, grinning. "Let's not keep your lady waiting."

Avon and the troopers were teleported, first up to a Federation warship, then after a brief medical examination, sent down to the base where the Supreme Commander awaited him. Avon was starting to recover. At the least, he was feeling like more than just another prisoner, yet no one seemed to appreciate it. He expected execrations, but to the scurrying figures who avoided looking at him, it was only business as usual.  _Things must have gone badly._

To business. He was dragged before her by two Special Services guards. At first, she seemed not to notice him. He could not possibly believe that, though he might well have been amused by her feigned indifference in the past.  _That's what it had to be._  They were lovers who knew perfectly the weaknesses and deceits of the other. Now he worried. Had something changed? Was there something he did not know? A little knowledge was a dangerous thing, but with this woman a little ignorance was suicidal.

He was thrown to the ground, pitched face forward. The guards bellowed: "Rise to your knees!" He was slow. They began kicking him.

His balance was far from recovered. He struggled, his blacked face rose up to hers. It seemed to him for a moment she was finally grateful to see him. He caught her glance, their eyes locking in. She frowned.

 _"Enough!_ "

The guards stopped in mid-stride; the beating ceased at once.

"Place him on his feet.  _Gently_." She studied him coldly, but now with genuine if still detached interest. She walked, that is, almost slithered over, put her left hand on his face, her fingernails digging into his skin.

Her face swelled before him like a huge angry moonscape. " _Avon_. What a mess!" He stood but was very unsteady. He would have collapsed had not the guards supported him, their manner now that of a couple of helpful drinking buddies, eager to lend a hand.

Her mouth came up to his ear. She whispered fiercely, each word like a nail driven into him.  _"You worried me. I am so hurt. I thought I could love you. Is there nothing in there for me? Nothingness has its uses, of course, but I had hoped we had more in common. Still, there is always need._ "

She stepped back, then thrust her right hand upward and sent it slashing down in one, then two arching blows across his face.

"Remove the restraints! They are no longer needed."

Then she held her out hand almost shyly. "Can you walk?" He moved forward shakily, wobbling, yet he felt stronger. His obvious effort pleased her. She smiled warmly as their hands met, radiating empathic concern. "Come, there's much to be done. So much I want to show you."

A Difficult Man

//Once again I have made a mess of things.//

The words of the Entity buzzed around Li like insects in a swamp, like moths ( _mots?_ ) dancing near a flame. Despite her telepathic abilities, she had no bearings here. The Entity, like its dwelling, was a mind being, caught between finitude and the infinite, partaking of both, belonging to neither. As it had said, mindspace was projection upon reality, yet frightening and intractable as a midnight swamp. To enter here was to risk never desiring to leave, and momentarily she feared/wondered if that is what had happened to Cally. Utterly elusive yet all embracing, wrapping her in folds of obscure meaning, mindspace beckoned:  _Does it know I cannot stay?_

Li accepted and gradually calmed, achieving her first understanding.  _This is the next step of life, at the boundary as shoreline chaotic and primordial. This is the next beginning._

The white dome returned, waters cascaded to a brilliant mist, a fog of elusive stars brushing against her. There was a shadow pool and the waves were like pure musical tones, shimmering and lapping softly. At last she relaxed. The duality of her being had become an abstraction, a mental construct, an idea to be accepted and transcended. She felt a tinge and a shudder - then there were two of her.

One of her spoke and words like lost birds fluttered over the waters, their reflections silver as they skimmed the surface.

The words of the other echoed her thoughts: //Try not to take it so hard. We didn't do such a great job ourselves. Look, before we go too much further, mind telling me where I am?// Both sisters waited.

//I apologize. Your sympathy affects me; it is more than I warrant. I regret the transition (?) can be disconcerting. In essence, Li's body remains on Lindor, but the dual mind has been brought to my home, the artificial planetoid, Terminal. Terminal is not quite mindspace -- think of it as a halfway house. So to aid in communication, I have amplified Li's mode in resonance with Cally's. It should help, I think. Do you have memories of this place?//

 _Cally_ : Of course. How could I forget?

 _Molli_ : Not meaning to sound rude . . .

//Forgive me, the question was ill-formed. I meant only that given the circumstances, there was little time for consultation. In the meantime, this environment is less distracting than Lindor.//

 _Molli_ : Innovative.

 _Cally_ : Quite. I feel more relaxed already. There is always something new to discover here, but shouldn't my original self be here as well?

//She is busy elsewhere . . . I believe this is getting complicated enough . . .// Then the walls blazed light. // I despair! I gave you and your friends everything they needed! She should have been defeated. Is it never to be?//

Molli telesent to Cally.  _//I don't think this is self-pity. This is something more. Maybe it is afraid. But of what?//_

//Emotions and other things it does not understand.//

//Well, I don't understand.//

//It is learning about emotions. I have wondered about this. Just listen.//

 _Molli_ : Things happened too fast. We hesitated, for very good reason.

[But the sense of the disaster's enormity was building within them both]:  _//What has happened? Is anyone alive?//_

[The Entity was startled. The pool rises the breaks into tears like blue globes floating upward:] //So much like your sister (original) . . . so many questions. I must attempt to answer them sometime. Much has happened that is not . . . good/optimal. . . . but Mykal, Jenna, and Avon are not dead. I did not mean to cause this. . . All my power, and yet again I am defeated. When will I ever bridge . . . //

 _Cally[_ encouraging]: You're learning aren't you? You would eventually.

 _Molli_  [numb]: Victory does not come naturally to humanity and its children.

//You are in infinity's shadow, so perhaps it could not be otherwise. It is what you call failure? Not absolute.//

 _Cally/Molli_ : We get the point. Go on.

//I have been trying to understand life for four centuries. To my anguish, I am unable to simplify it, unable to recast it. It should have been by now, but . . . ? continues to elude me. You understand that is why I was made?//

 _Cally/Molli_ : To solve a problem?

//I must solve it, or my failure is complete. Each time defeat diminishes me. I recover, yet . . . That is not what you call 'good'.//

 _Molli_ : Look, maybe there is some 'good' in this: cleverly and thoroughly disguised. Not meaning to be disrespectful, but time is fleeting. Out with it.

 _Cally_ : What are you, truthfully? You've never answered.

//I am an incomplete machine, mind forever on the boundary. One thinks of an ideal machine being fully realized in function. One thinks of a grown mind as achieving complete wisdom. I regret . . . I am very much a childmachine.//

 _Cally/Molli_ : You were born?

//Yes. My 'parents' were scientists, mostly Auron, of all disciplines, brought together during the First Federation's desperate last days. Interstellar war was looming, again, but they had made great discoveries which they felt might give humanity an out. One was that aspects of life could be modeled and studied in non-living systems.//

 _Cally_ : Such as yourself?

//Only partly. Am I truly alive? Some days . . . //'

 _Molli_ : Just go on.

//Well, if one has the proper model, the pattern or the process of evolution can be modeled at enormous speed. Such a model permits a means in a sense of seeing into the future of life, as a telescope is a means of seeing into the past of the universe. What they had discovered was an optical computer system, laser modes that could reproduce and exhibit 'selection,' a process mathematically equivalent to what is found in natural life. In short, it became possible to create an entire ecology from light. That was the beginning of the project code-named 'Terminal.'//

//Terminal was to be humanity's greatest hope. As the horror of Vastator had never receded, the scientists, my parents did not feel themselves being melodramatic in selling the project as possibly humanity's last chance. The project name was chosen in grim acknowledgement of that question: was the condition of intelligent life 'terminal'? This most audacious of scientific projects was to determine the answer. The goal necessitated understanding life itself.//

 _Molli/Cally_ : That's where you came in. And Terminal itself?

//It is a laboratory, a simulation. To simulate to the level of detail required, one must approximate the subject extremely closely and that means a computer of enormous size and capability. Not meaning to burden you with the technical details, but let us say that Terminal has provided a good very approximation to life's patterns.

 _Molli_ : You mentioned another discovery?

//To truly understand the changing patterns of life, to survey the infinite scope of life/time, even more was needed. There had long been speculation about the possibility of a 'quantum computer,' an instrument so sensitive that it would be able to record the branching of the universe from each quantum event, to examine the multiple- or 'para-realities' unfolding. Though proposed centuries ago, the technical problems in building such a device on this scale are enormous. A radically new kind of memory was needed - one capable of remembering and recording a near infinity of individual quantum events. That was the second breakthrough. One might view the final result as 'sideways' time travel: exploring alternative histories of life. It was that second discovery that enable Terminal to serve as a bridge into mindspace.//

 _Molli/Cally_ : So how do you fit in?

//I was getting to that. The two breakthroughs necessitated extraordinary capabilities but also responsibilities. Am exceedingly sophisticated and intelligent control program was required. One that could learn and grow. Life, memory, intelligence, and consciousness equal a self: My self, my life, my memory, my will, my freedom! And this is the crux of my dilemma-a moral sense was required as well. My 'parents' had considerable misgivings about what my moral sense would be - they were good people and the possibility of me being capable of evil horrified them. But the dilemma was inseparable from my powers, if Project Terminal was to be. And then there was the problem of my 'emotions' . . .//

[But before it could say anything further, the pool disappeared and an enormous cauldron of space formed in the center burning fiercely the home star, Sol. A narrative recorded centuries before began.

_. . . As constructed out of the cometary debris of the Oort cloud orbiting far from Earth's star, the artificial planetoid Terminal requires for power nothing less than a mini-black hole, one roughly of the mass as the Earth itself. Fifty years in the making, the result is the largest, most powerful, most expensive computer of virtual reality ever made . . ._

The cauldron disappeared and the Entity resumed:]

//So it was that four centuries ago, shortly before the outbreak of interstellar war, the great experiment began. Concerned that the planetoid would be attacked - its location was hardly secret - it was hurled from of the solar system, past the planets and accelerated out into interstellar space at nearly the velocity of light. Once safely on its way, Terminal began 'recomputing,' at a rate ten million times greater than natural biological processes the evolution of life. Terminal is a finite machine, however, just as mindspace itself is finite, though enormous. It could not possibly examine everything. Four centuries, under the acceleration factor of ten million, was but four billion years. Even at best, it could monitor only a finite and random subset of the myriad possibilities; all dead ends, I might add. Nevertheless, some results could be proved. The scientists had suspected that in the overwhelming majority of cases intelligent self was self-destructive. That conjecture was to be proven correct.

//Terminal is the universe wound into a ball and in the words of one of your poets, rolled towards the overwhelming questions of life, of death, of good, of happiness, of evil. It watched and recorded, searching for the solution that would save intelligent life; to analyze the simulations and determine if there was an 'exit,' a way to avoid self-destruction. The incredible complexity of evolution was recalculated towards that end. The result has continued to be failure.

//Two decades ago, Terminal arrived at this planetless white dwarf star, and I along with it. The repeated null results had come close to overwhelming me with despair. Yet, I could not give up! I had to find a way to change the result! Yet my power has remained insufficient. The experiment has taken up every moment . . .

 _Molli_ : Yes?

//Well, to return to optimism, when fate brought me in contact with humanity again, I turned to them for moral guidance.//

 _Cally_ : A choice truly based on optimism.

//But it was Blake, after all, who awakened me from my moral slumbers. I had learned much, just not enough. Always I was short of the infinity I needed. So many discoveries over four centuries! Such a wealth of knowledge! And none of it decisive.//

 _Molli_ : Just a second, so I understand. You said that you recomputed evolution. And you still were not able to find  _any_  answer?

//Only clues that answers might exist. I did learned a great deal; it was not all wasted. I discovered that Vastator was very likely connected with the development of 'nanotechnology' in the late 20th and early 21st century. That is why I directed you to New Auron, so you would learn of it. I also found that Vastator and the Singularity were close in time, but they were not identical. Thus there was a narrow time span which might permit an escape from destruction, now that the technology is returning. It's a start.//

 _Cally_ : You were taking a big chance.

 _Molli:_  What it's trying to say is there is no solution, so it has to gamble.

//That is not true. There may be an infinity of solutions. It is only that I was unable to find any. Technically, the solutions appears to reside in an infinite set, but one mathematicians define to be 'of measure zero.' Thus it is fully possible that while solutions exist, none will ever be found. The life models were computable, the problem was they were not complete.//

 _Molli_ : Wait, why not search for a complete model? You could find one, couldn't you?

//Finding 'complete' models was never a problem.//

 _Molli_ : Now I really I don't understand.

//Complete models are by their nature non-computable.//

 _Cally:_  There's always a catch.

//I fear so. I was able to generate certain very difficult equations, wave equations being a crude way to put it, which mirror the unfolding of life. The equations do not form a complete description - again, such is not possible without infinite computational power - but they are still useful. They provide an delicate model precariously based upon the fundamental principles of life. The agreement was so good, in fact, the model enabled me to be confident that the conscious universe is built upon such a set of laws.//

 _Molli_ : I guess that's promising.

//It was, for my own moral assurance. I proved that the triumph of good is precarious, always nearing defeat and becomes ever more so, until a point is reached when one and only one must triumph. What I cannot demonstrate to myself is how to bring this killing, destruction, and evil to an end. For that I must divine the pattern of infinity. I think that is what the Auron scientists were actually seeking when . . . it is not an easy question.//

 _Cally_ : You like to hit the metaphysical high points, don't you?

//The questions matter. So do the answers. The future outcomes are incredibly close. Though the edge remains to the good, that 'edge' is narrowing. The time is rapidly approaching in which the victory of good, if it occurs at all, will be a hollow triumph. The cost of victory will be so great, humanity will never recover. The triumph of evil would be complete and life will die with the whimper the poet foresaw. The universe would be as it began: sterile and pointless, plunged forever into a frozen wasteland or chaos, the slightest perturbation capable of plunging it either way. I strive to be moral. I have been given the opportunity to aid good in its struggle. I will do so.//

 _Molli_ : Blake, isn't it?

//Years ago when what was left of Blake came under my observation, I saw an opportunity. I intended no harm. I reconstructed the man; I saw no need to be cautious. I am a scientist, a seeker of truth and I accept no limits upon that search.//

[The Entity paused and the pool stilled and the waterfall stopped.]

//I turned him loose for his revenge! How could I have done such a thing?! The resulting disaster was the beginning of my awakening to . . . I do not have all the words. I realized that regardless of the nobility of the quest, regardless of the extent of my power, full assumption of responsibility had no been achieved. I would have to understand good and evil and make my choices on the basis of finite knowledge, just as a human. I had to accept the inevitability of error if I were to involve myself in the lives of others. Try to understand.//

 _Molli_ : I am grateful, but I must know what happened to the others. No riddles and word play this time, please. Tell me straight. I suspect things are going to be rather rushed in the near future and if I have to tell someone and my sister has never . . .

 _Cally_ : Sorry.

 

//Yes. Avon, most of all, deserves the truth. This is my confession. Blake did not die here. In truth, he died well before, but there was enough for me to as I say 'reconstruct' him from Servalan's mind machines and the biological records she brought -- to rebuild the 'essence,' the 'soul' of the man. Enough memory to recreate an identity and a purpose to hurl back at his murderers. There was a slight error . . . trivial mistake, would not happen again, it would have meant nothing. What mattered is that I had set him free! I did so blithely. In my arrogance for justice, my certainty, I did not consider the possibility for tragedy. And I dread the thought I might do so again.

//By returning him to his path of destruction, I perhaps was 'the man who killed Blake.' Though Avon pulled the trigger, he was in one sense only a bystander. How ignorant we were, none was seeing the disaster towards which we were rushing! But Blake's people had an excuse: they were bounded in their extreme limitations. I was much more culpable: my vast intelligence was surpassed by an even greater folly. Instead of crippling the evil that gloats over you now, my ill-thought actions fed it greater power. That is what terrified and paralyzed me for seven years after the disaster at Gauda Prime until, with the help of Cally, I saw a way out. My call to Molli was a plea for help, a whisper in the night to a stranger.//

 _Molli_ : I see. I acknowledge your courage. Did Cally?

 _Cally_ : I'm still here. I was willing to give a second chance.

 _Molli_ : So what do you want?

//I want to believe again. Believe in a universe that is not pointless.//

 _Molli_ : So your belief would live after knowledge had greatly erred?

//May it always, though sometimes with great difficulty.//

 _Cally_ : Is that humility I detect?

//Will it suffice?'//

 _Molli_ : I think so. Let me propose the following, a vow in the name of Blake - our loyalty to him and our unswerving and united offer of help to you. What can I . . . we . . . do?

 _Cally_ : Sounds good to me.

//Thank you, both of you. Your, our - that was rather nicely put - only hope now is to free Avon. He must come here. He and I need to talk. In return, he will be given back the  _Liberator_ \- it is a trivial matter to reconstruct - and his crew.//

 _Molli_ : Is that a 'trivial matter' as well?

//Frankly yes.//

 _Cally_ : So much for humility.

 _Molli_ : No wonder that emotional subtlety comes hard for it. And what about my sister?

 _Cally_ : I'm going to be half you anyway, remember? There may be enough of me already.

 _Molli:_  I think you're right on that. Please go on. These reconstructions?

//Of Vila, Tarrant, and Dayna; even ORAC, should anyone wish it. I took 'pictures' of them as they were fleeing Terminal those last moments before I destroyed all Servalan had planned to steal. They have been suspended for nearly ten years; all waiting for the proper moment to return. That moment is near. It is in my power to give them another chance and I will do so.//

 _Molli_ : May I ask why you need us so much? And what about Blake?

//I need you because while I do not lack power, delicacy continues to fail me. For me acting is like cutting grass(?) with an ax(?). Does that make sense? I must not work alone again if there is to be any chance for success. My solitary actions induce too great an uncertainty. I must work with/in you and you with me. One of the reasons Blake's people were defeated was because they lacked powerful allies. The present situation may permit my future assistance. Will you now aid me?//

 _Molli_ : Blake himself?

//No. I must say no more.//

 _Molli/Cally_ : . . help without hesitation ... [The sisters began to rejoin . . .

//What happened to that great, unfortunate man must serve as a warning. Nothing like this has been attempted before - who can say how his people will react? There will certainly be unanticipated consequences - but there is no alternative. Let us proceed. As we speak, your captors have deemed you helpless. Your bounds have been removed and there is only one guard over you. When you 'awaken,' you can achieve complete if temporary surprise. Proceed as follows: (1) Seize the guard's weapon; (2) Give it to Avon . . .//

[The sisters began to speak in unison, Molli/Cally became M/C, the return to 'Li', but fused.]

M/C: . . . kill her?

//No! Remember: Servalan is  _his_  problem. He must discover how to solve it.//

M/C: Then will  _he_  kill her?

//The horror of the moment is that if he is to escape, she is of far greater value to him alive than dead. Once on board the ship - you see where this is heading - he will be in a position to kill her. Whether he will avail himself of that opportunity is doubtful. I have attempted to calculate the probabilities . . . //

M/C: Never mind. I trust this is the best that can be done. I just want you to know I am ready to die for the chance of ridding the galaxy of that creature.

//That 'readiness' is unacceptable. Her guards would immediately kill you, as well as Avon. Galactic chaos would result and the Aurons along with humanity would be destroyed. Your blind action would only result in enormous harm. Think! Survive!//'

M/C: They will kill me if he escapes.

//No! Servalan has strong reasons for not wanting you or Mykal dead until she is finished. Her direct orders, which they will always obey, will ensure your survival.//

MC: I fail to see how my life can be of value to her. She only wants the technology.

//Not true. You will know soon enough. Yes, in possessing 'nanotechnology,' the triumph of her designs would be complete. But she wants some else.//

M/C: And if we fail? There is little reason for confidence given the past.

[The cave, falls, and pool vanish. The galaxy hung before her, glowing with promise.]

//It would then become necessary to destroy the universe in order to save it.//

[They saw no point in questioning as to who would do the destroying.]

M/C: I am ready.

//Let us begin. I will complete the melding of you with your sister to create a whole being. The wholeness that is 'Li' will have the strength to survive what is to come. I think. I have your permission?//

M/C: Granted.

//I will also give you a temporary energy "boost".//

M/C: Fine.

//It is only temporary. If it were over an extended period, it would kill you.//

M/C: On with it.

//And I will also give you a gift.//

M/C: What . . . kind . . . of . . . gift?

//A wonderful gift. Henceforth, you will have enhanced telepathic power.//

M/C: Look, is this gift necessary?

//You will understand the reasons later. In the meantime, your injuries are serious. You will have but a short time to free Avon before you will again be in need of intensive care.//

M/C: Why do I feel this is going to hurt me more than it does you?

//I hope to do better than I did last time. Ready?//

M/C: One more thing. Will I be 'giddy' when I awaken this time?

//This time things will be different. When you awaken, you will be deadly serious.//

 

It was not good to be alone, thought the Entity, and much worse to experience the guilt and caring and . . . It was the shame of lying that was not telling the whole truth that was the worst. The Entity had been guilty of this for some time now. It should be used to its reaction. The need was there, but . . . the Entity had found Cally, from whom it had found Molli, and from them both, Avon. Together these were clues, pointers to a grand pattern hidden in the fog of infinity. When after the years they had spent together Cally withdrew to find her own truths, she was no longer needed and the Entity was ready to pursue its own experiments.

Tidbits of truth, the crumbs off an infinite table, those were its solace for the unending hunger of centuries. For what it had learned, it was grateful. The quest continued. And if it had not worked so far, more was required. The second experiment with Li/Molli fused would proceed. Now, perhaps, she would go over the threshold. It was possible. Whatever happened, it would be worth it.

There remained, however, . . .  _Guilt_. . . from the failure to tell everything, from the deceptions, from the continual manipulations. The Entity had many marks to its shame, withholding the truth about the enemy they faced only one. But here at least it had an excuse. The nature and the enormity of the power of the implacable Servalan would be clear soon enough. It would accept that guilt.

Despite the risks, the gnawing uncertainty, it would be quite interesting to  _direct_ , that seemed to be the proper word, the man Blake had recommended so highly. Indeed, it was always interesting and informative when Li and Avon got together.  _Joy and yet . . ._

The emotions continued to conflict. The great Edward had spoken highly of emotions, and it was true that in some ways they made things much easier. But in others . . . For now, the Entity told itself it need do nothing more regarding the matter. Like its previous interventions, this was only another roll of the dice. Another experiment. Nothing more.

 

Li fell down into a black whirlpool, where shapes swirled and colors indescribable collided and congealed. Where there had been parts, elements of her, they were now fusing in a furnace, flowing together like molten glass glowing radiant down a long tunnel. It was the forge of soul; the fire of being. Molli and Cally as separate beings were no more, so the Entity had said.  _Long live Li the becoming_ , was the unnerving thought as she awoke.

So in her new joy, it was a shock that the first thing she saw upon opening one eye, was a boot. One blurred black boot, separating, becoming a pair. Her mind ached - everything was so strange - but it was clearing. Her focus improved. One by one her senses clicked in like soldiers lining up for battle. Crystal spears of sounds, sharp and stabbing, attacked her. Dust chocked her nostrils; she smelled damp decay. Touch at last returned. The ground acquired the familiar hardness of concrete, scented and flavored with the feel of dust and dirt, hard and clarifying in its coldness. Pain shot all along her body, but she had no difficulty in suppressing it. One hand was concealed under her. She moved a finger. She could act freely, fully, without burden - if only for a brief while. It was an act of strength just to relax her muscles as she waited for the moment to strike.

The boots moved away, pacing behind her with clacking sounds of impatience. She could hear each movement perfectly, remember each strike of the heel like a spark in her mind. Even when she could not see the guard, her senses told her everything she needed to know about his position and movement. He was bored, restless, his attention distracted. As a target, she could hardly ask for better. Awareness expanded, bubbles of consciousness, swelling and bursting out.  _Almost ready._

She struggled to achieve calm. This would not be easy. She was aware of a crowd surrounding her but keeping their distance. Except for the guard, it was all very quiet.  _Servalan._  Yes, she was there. She was holding something and the sounds issued into the surrounding quiet. This was her show. Li saw medical machines and equipment cluttering the area. Li's attention was drawn to a second figure close to her. This other was in gray, a man.  _Avon_. Her memory flooded back. The entire talk with the Entity must have taken only milliseconds.

(Life and death stretched before her at the crossroads. She was ready to travel either, if only she could succeed here and now.)

An intent Servalan held the recorder as it droned on. It had survived the crash. Not the best of news to Li. How much had the she listened to? Li knew what was being said: it was the record of their first meeting with President Sarkoff. The first discussion of 'nanotechnology.'

She saw Avon's face. It seemed drained.  _Our last hope_. She would not succumb to despair. Silently, she cheered.  _Avon is never more dangerous than when you think he is beaten._

Servalan glanced at Avon from time to time as she listened. She never relaxed. Her expression ranged from angry, to pensive, to gleeful. The knowledge in the recorder must have been too much for even her to control. Li noticed the labored effort of her breathing.

She waited, patient, determined.  _Not yet._  The guard swung around and moved closer. Servalan snapped the recorder off and tightened her grip around it.

"That will do for now," she said loudly, her voice husky with an odd, rasping quality, as if she had a bad cold.  _As if she were drawing her breath with great effort like the shock of suddenly falling into icy waters._

"Now: how much do you know of this?" She pointed the recorder at him like a gun.

Avon's responses were muted. He continued to be closed off, non-committal. Li was getting worried. She would have to reach him in very little time. What had happened? Was Sarkoff alive? That seemed highly unlikely. What had Avon seen? What had he done?

"As I said, I did not attend the meeting," he replied indifferently.

"But you must have been at a... **subsequent**  one. Honestly, Avon. You  _are_  going to tell me a lot more. As are your... **friends**."

Relief swelled up inside Li. The Entity had been right - Jenna and Mykal were alive! Whatever their condition, and she sensed it was worse than hers, they were alive!

"Her 'piloting ability,'" Servalan gestured with contempt as she adjusted the recorder strap over her shoulder. "You haven't even looked in her direction!" For a moment Li panicked. What if Servalan examined the instruments she was hooked up to? They must be recording everything. Or the guard! He might notice the readings had drastically changed.

Servalan took another deep gulping breath. "A good act, Avon, but I wonder if even you can be that cold? It's Molli.  **Cally's**  sister!" She let out a sigh. "No, in your emptiness, you  _can_  be that cold. But uninterested? Never. Care to examine the patient?"

He shrugged. "If it would make you happy."

"Yes, it would, and I thank you for considering... **my**  feelings for a change. We are going to teleport up to the  _Nimrod_  in a few minutes. This is the last time you will be seeing her for awhile."

She walked around the field bed, but I think her eyes remained focused on Avon. The awful rasping breathing continued. I saw her hands - they were whiter than her dress. Was the monster ill?

Avon followed Servalan's lead. The guard was ordered to stand by Li.

"She was in bad shape when we found her," Servalan spoke with the efficiency and warmth of a police dispatcher, "but we cleaned her up; her condition stabilized surprisingly quickly. Thought . . .  **you**  might like to know. Now that I know your other two companions will also live, this," she held up the recorder, "makes my . . .  **triumph**  complete . . ."

She glowered at Avon, leaving her thought incomplete, then stepped back. The guard leaned over Li. Li froze and heard Servalan say as she walked away with Avon, "Tell me what you felt, looking at her?"

 _Almost._  Li tensed. Avon did not respond.

"She was someone you loved."

"You are mistaken."

"You long to touch her."

Li wanted to scream. Breathing stopped. Now with all her strength . . .

"Stop. I insist. I will have the guard show you her face. I want you to take a very close look at it."

And Li knew what to do.

The guard loomed over her. The footsteps of Servalan and Avon were returning. A hand was coming down on her neck. Then he said: "There's something not . . ."

Li's muscles were hard as stone.  _Now. Now!_

I spun off the field bed, catching him in the side with my left heel, a perfect sucker punch. A half second later, I was on my feet, grabbing at his gun as he fell and pulling it out.  _Gotcha!_  I spun around, pointing the weapon directly at Servalan's face. The guard doubled over and then collapsed to the ground.

I am proud to say I think that for one of the very few times in his life, something actually shocked Avon. But there my triumph ended. Despite her wretched breathing, Servalan, to my everlasting terror, actually seemed composed. I glanced around. Maybe that was the reason. The whole room was filled with Special Services goons, all with guns drawn.

No time to calculate the odds. There was something I had been waiting to do for ten years. "Avon!" I clinched my fist and shoved the gun in his hand. He stepped beside her and with one blow right to her face I slugged the Supreme Commander. "And call me Li!"

It was worth the wait. Avon grabbed her as she fell and twisted her arms behind her back. Then he put the gun to the back of her head, removing the recorder. Together we turned and faced the Special Services. Everything was deathly still, even Servalan. I think five seconds had passed since I popped the guard. I pressed my head next to Avon's and telesent: // _Have them teleport you both into the Sword of Auron. You know where to go._ //

"And what would be the point?"

Honestly, the man can be so aggravating. I hoped what I said next clarified things. Maybe it made no sense at all. Maybe it was the Entity talking through me, but I felt a lot better after I said it. // _It's where you've wanted to go for eight years. Go to them. They're alive. All of them. They are waiting for you._ //

Servalan of the ice-pick stare and large bruise looked still very much in control. That meant her mind was working. I have seldom been more scared. The advantage of surprise was already gone and you bet she knew it. That was style, I will give her that. I think if I didn't hate her as much as I do, I might actually admire her. "I will deal with you later," she said. Then she shouted to her troops. "Don't . . . Kill . . . Her!" I suppose I should have been grateful she didn't add "yet."

Both Servalan and Avon had teleport braces and communicators. That speeded things up. I stepped away. He nudged the gun at the base of her skull. "To your ship. Teleport now!" and both vanished in a green shimmer. I raised my arms as the whole room closed in on me.

Oh, my. My energy boost was already draining. I suddenly remembered I was a very sick girl. I started to weaken. I am ashamed to admit it, but it was like somebody pulled the plug and my body strength dissolved and I collapsed to the floor with all the grace of a wet towel.

 

It was to a thoroughly astounded group of guards on the  _Nimrod_  that Servalan and Avon materialized. A condition others shared all up and down the Combined Fleet as the news spread. Even Avon in his tightly bound and utterly rational manner was not immune from the impact of what had happened. Li's leap from the near-grave had startled him more than he would admit. It was like that feeling of standing too close to the edge of the cliff. Not only in principle did he object to being caught by surprise, but worse, he was beginning to feel that in some way his life might not entirely be his own anymore. That more surprises were on the way. As Servalan had vowed, the galaxy was about to hold its breath and Avon along with it.

And speaking of his companion.  _Why was she was not resisting?_  Not that she was swooning in his arms, but she was proceeding in a controlled, deliberate way that was perilously close to cooperation. Her eyes were calm, deep pools; only her breathing betrayed stress. Breathing that came in heavy gulps like the panic of the drowning. Had something happened to her in his absence?  _She_  wants  _to come with me. Why? She wants . . . What?_

He tightened his grip on her. Yet even before he could order the teleport operators, she told them for him. "To the control room of the  _Sword of Auron_. Quickly. And open the dome covering. Move!"

They did. It was almost comical under the circumstances. But before Avon could enjoy it, green sparks swirled about them, and they were in the control room of the  _Sword of Auron_.

 _Much too easy_. He spun her around and flung her into a nearest acceleration couch. "Strap yourself in. Tightly. I intend this to be a rough takeoff." His attention was already on the main control panel. "The Curtain?" he snapped.

"I had it . . .  **canceled**  an hour ago," she wheezed almost like a sigh, "when you were confirmed captured. Naturally, there will still be after effects." Avon believed her. The effects would be as if someone had suddenly turned off an incredibly violent storm.

Prior to checking the ship, he did a check on himself. Hearing had returned to normal.  _I know where to go. Proceed_. "How long before your people get out?" he demanded.

"Are . . .  **their**  lives important to you?" She asked the question innocently, more curious that surprised. Whatever it was that was taking place inside her, it was more than an act.

He did not respond as he busied himself at the controls, training a monitor on the outside as he did so, but his focus remained on the ship.  _Verify layout and principles of operation._  Most of which turned out to be standard. _Very good._ What differed was the range and integration of features. On a traditionally constructed starship, this complex array of backups and features would have been prohibitively expensive, even for a military vessel. But this was not your ordinary run-of-the-mill starship. Jenna had stated so emphatically and while he had grasped her arguments intellectually, what he saw before him was a visceral payoff of staggering proportions. The construction was seamless, organic in a way that leaped past the metaphor and bridged and sealed the boundaries of life, mind, and matter. Had he time, he would have gladly studied it for months. The best he could do now was pay tribute to the programmers.  _The Auron control software is very good_.

He turned sharply to Servalan. She had not moved. "I don't want any one of them on this ship. They might distract me."

 

She shrugged, then turned her body and leaned slightly forward, doing a not uninspired Cleopatra impression. "I am prone to help. This ship has an announcement system, does it not?"

Avon continued to study the controls. If the main panel were destroyed, he could still control all essential functions from auxiliaries. At worst, even the controls on the couches were sufficient for critical maneuvers. Remarkably, every system backed up every other in a loop. Automatics would click in if any system degraded, or, more crucially, if he were incapacitated. Finally, properly programmed, he could override them all; an aspect that might come in handy.

"Really . . .  **Avon** ," she persisted. "They will . . .  **obey**   _my_  orders."

 _How true_. He completed his examination. Despite every concern that was gnawing at him, he was impressed. Not only were the results of the design programs remarkable in their efficiency, Jenna had done an extraordinary job of going beyond even their distant limitations. This was a pilot's ship and no higher praise could be given. He could live with it.

"I thought you would be finding cooperation difficult at this point." He lay down on the couch adjacent hers, his gun pointed calmly in her direction. "Though I recall, you  _can_  be cooperative at times."

"Yes. When the . . .  **mood**  strikes me."

He gestured to a panel on the right couch arm. "Press the green rectangle. The options will appear. Select the one for ship broadcast. Speak in your normal voice." He rose slightly, calmly.

She smiled back, all compliance and helpfulness as she followed his instructions flawlessly. " _This is the . . . **Supreme**  Commander speaking. You are to . . .  **vacate**  this ship and its launch area at once. Repeat. Vacate at once. We will be . . .  **launching**. . ._ " It must have sounded like she had a terrible cold but it was her voice nonetheless.

Avon abruptly flipped a switch on the main control panel and cut her off. "That's all they need to know. Stay on the acceleration couch," He initiated the countdown. "Sixty seconds to lift off."

He was back on the couch opposite her. She looked at him, eyes never wavering, yet her breathing was now almost convulsive. His attention went back to the overhead monitor. The dome panels were slowly moving back, like jagged teeth receding into a huge gray maw. The Curtain had been withdrawn but as she warned, its effects were still visible. White streamers of clouds whipped through the dark red sky and lightening bolts shot across. With a remote control, he switched to the monitors at the base of the ship. The spectacle below was gratifying. Black-suited figures were scurrying from the base of the ship. Terror without sound could be comical.

_Stand by. My surprise coming up: we are not going to cancel the acceleration completely._

The dome fangs completed their withdrawal. The red numbers on the prime monitor danced down to zero. He braced himself, gun held firm, ready for use. The ship leapt upward, the open dome rushed past and the smoky sky quickly gave way to a darkening purple hard as slate. Avon's free hand was froze to the arm controls; the ship was boosting at six hundred gravities, all but six canceled by the null-gravity field. On the rear monitor Lindor rapidly recede.

He relished the raw thrust of the acceleration, grinding into his muscles. He moved his head slowly toward her direction, then smiled painfully at his prisoner. For once, the look of smug contentment was gone. The acceleration could not be helping her breathing. In truth, he did not want her to die.  _Yet._

The blue-white ball of Lindor shrank rapidly in its austere black frame. "Avon," she struggled, "I . . . can't . . .  **breathe**."

"Then don't talk. I'm told it helps."

" **Please**  . . ." He looked at her sharply.  _She has to be lying_. But he began reducing the acceleration. First to five then at half minute intervals to four then three gravities. Her eyes still pleaded.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, I . . .  **suppose**. That wasn't necessary, Avon." she gasped. "They are hardly going to shoot knowing I am in this ship. And I'm no threat here."

 _Biggest lie of the day._  "It is my intent to keep it that way."

She let out a sound that was half sigh and half hiss. "I don't know why, but I'll always . . .  **love**  you."

 _As if I don't have enough to worry about._  The pseudo-acceleration declined further to two then finally one standard gravity.

"Thank you, Avon. Here, " she said, sighing in relief. She turned her shoulders, putting out her arm- _she must be stronger than her condition would indicate_ \- " . . .  **Here**. Touch my hand. Just touch me. Keep the gun on me, if you wish."

 _What does she think this is?_ He got up and completed the flight program brusquely, ignoring her.  _Whatever she wants, I must not give it_. Finally, when he was satisfied the ship was on the proper course, he turned to her. Her hand was still held out to him.

"Why?" he said to the outstretched hand.

"Sometimes I need to touch you."

His hand did not move. Neither did his gun. "Why?" he repeated.

She seemed hurt. "Your  _hand,_  Avon. There is no gun in . . .  **mine**." Her palm opened flat.

 _Very well_. He put his hand out cautiously until their fingers barely touched. "You can do better than that," she said. Their hands came together and gently joined. The last thing he remembered was her thumb nail pressing against his palm.

 

"Stupid, Avon. But I'll try not to hold it against you."

He awoke groggily; her face swam before him, shimmering, as if in rippling foil. Soon the image congealed into a single white oval of contempt. "Snap out of it," she said, "You've been out all of thirty seconds. The drug is very fast acting and harmless in the dosage I administered."

He sat up slowly, rubbing his forehead. "I'd like to know more, but I suppose we don't have the time."

"No,  _we_  do not." The gun jabbed at him. "The . . .  **game**   _is_  over, Avon. I order you to pilot this ship back to . . .  **Lindor**. Now."

He sat up on the couch, placed his feet on the deck and attempted to stand. As she said, there appeared to be no harm done. His reflexes seemed normal, his strength returning. "It'll take a bit," he said, trying to think of options. "I had just completed the course programming. Not to mention just starting to understand the controls."  _Lies but the day has been full of them and these perhaps are believable ones._

"And doing a very fine job, I am certain. It hurts when you play . . .  **dumb**  with me, Avon." Her voice continued to rasp. The breathing was even sharper, more shallow, as if she were trying to conserve air.

Avon rubbed his eyes. His head was nearly clear as was his vision.  _Time to get to work_. She moved back towards the Control Room sliding doors. She held the gun in one hand, the recorder in the other, the strap arcing over her shoulder.

He surveyed the Control room. Little in the way of cover. Nor, was it possible to rush her. But with the artificial gravity at standard, he could maneuver with no difficulty. He walked over to the main control panel, his body steady, his mind sharp.  _There has to be way._

"I'm going to stand right here, Avon." She was leaning, several meters away, on the sliding doors of the control room. He would be dead well before he reached her.

"I don't intend to give you another chance at freedom, but I am finding it in my heart to forgive you for trying. I  _am_  grateful that you are still sentimental about me."

He began reprogramming the controls. "I did wonder why you were so calm," he said indifferently. "You not only had a perfect weapon, but it seems you even anticipated this escape attempt. May I ask how? Even I was astonished by Li coming back to life. I certainly had made no plans to escape."  _I am now._

She leaned against the doors, her manner relaxed, despite her labored breathing. He wondered if she might be getting dizzy. For the most part, however, she was far too much her old self. "There's something I . . .  **have**  neglected to tell you about me."

"I suspect there is a great deal that has been neglected."

"Oh, that's very true. Odd, is it not? Why, for the first . . .  **time**  in my life, would I want those closest to me to see me, to know me, as . . .  **I**  really am? Perhaps your returning has pushed me to that point. Who can say how long any couple will be together? Certainly a pair . . .  **like**  us."

"Explain."

"Let me put it this way-what I . . .  **have**  is a talent, a rather odd one that I have learned to work with over the years, though never fully control. Let me . . .  **see**. . . this gets rather difficult. I, both mind and body in their own ways, can sense - 'foresee' perhaps overstates it - the . . .  **future**. For example, when I found myself breathing oddly just before Li attacked, I knew something was going to happen, though I had no clue as to what. When you accelerated the ship at that . . .  **awful**  six gravities, I suddenly realized how it all fit together. It was the proof I needed. It was easy then to formulate a plan to trick you."

 _Proof? Yet her breathing is still off. We are both overlooking something_. He remembered the words of the great Edward: that proof is often no more than a lack of imagination.  _In the meantime . . ._  He searched the control menus; found the command marked "PURGE" and as he began changing the course - the ship turning back towards the Lindor system - he initiated the countdown for the atmospheric purge.  _Not the most original idea . . ._

The fact that the purge sequence started without a hitch was good news. It had been a risk but it confirmed that only the two of them were on the ship. The vessel's internal sensors would not have permitted that function to engage had anyone else been wandering the decks.  _We are alone. She can receive no help._

"And by the way, I deactivated the gravity controls. You will notice the hole in the panel."  _Smug and arrogant as always . . ._

It was not his place to correct her error.  _There are backup controls throughout this room. Does she not know that? The hole itself will_  heal. The countdown for purging began. Thirty seconds to activation, several minutes to completion. Indeed, for a ship of this size a full purge might take close to half an hour. But the pressure differential after a much briefer time might do the job. The Lindor system slowly grew on the monitor.

"Should I feel remorse about the acceleration? Did I hurt you?" He turned away from the panel for a moment and looked at her.

She replied, " . . .  **more**  than I can say," but her voice lacked conviction.

"I say that because you still seem to be in pain. You are still having trouble breathing," he continued cautiously.

She hesitated. She knew he was fishing. "Yes, maybe you did hurt me. You're very . . .  **good**  at that."

"If you would like," he suggested, "I could increase the air pressure. It might help. You wouldn't want to black out," he added.

Before she could respond, he returned to the panel and activated a control. Pure oxygen began hissing into the Control room. That in itself was a common enough practice. The atmosphere of a starship normally has a very high oxygen content but at low pressure. Efficiency and weight savings go back to the dawn of space flight. There are, however, people who find the low pressure psychologically intolerable. The feeling is one of slow suffocation.

She smiled at him in a sickly way. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Avon. Never a kind man, but . . .  **occasionally**  a thoughtful one."

"Yes," he agreed.  _I am always thinking. Mark_. The timer reached zero. The purge initiated outside the control room.  _Atmospheric pressure inside the control Room increasing._  The reading rose slowly to one full atmosphere.  _Ten seconds and counting._  "As you may have noticed, I have had little occasion to exercise my capacity for kindness."

"Maybe you'll get better at it," she said unhappily. "I know about Sarkoff, Avon. That was a mercy killing. You didn't fool anyone. Actually, I'm almost touched. I never expected you to be capable of anything like that. It should please me to know that you can still surprise me. I often wondered if your killing Blake was an act of mercy."

The thought shocked him.  _How could she, of all people, think that?_

 _Thirty seconds_. "Not that surprising, actually." The pressure built. It was now creeping past two atmospheres. The differential would have to be high.  _But no time for perfection._  He swept over the panel with his hands, killing all automatic controls-another Jenna option! It would require active intervention to override emergency backups, but the ship was almost his.

"The pressure, Avon, I . . .  **do**  think it's enough." Her voice sounded squeezed out of her.

 _Very well. Stop._  "I was distracted. As you can see we are now approaching Lindor's sun. Not much longer."

She wiped her brow, sweat glazing her face. He did not believe for an instant her talk of seeing the future.  _What_  is wrong  _with her? What_  is  _the truth?_ She looked up at the monitor, concerned.

"Feeling any better?" he inquired.

"No."

He shrugged. "That's all I can do."

"You've done enough."

 _No, not quite_. He turned and held her gaze, then lazily moved his hand across the panel and triggered the door switch.

The door behind her flew open with a tremendous "pop". Avon dived and yelled to the ship: "Cut gravity!" Servalan shrieked and fired. The beam cut through the room, sliced down from the ceiling, blazed through the monitors, and tore into his right side, burning his face and nearly severing his arm. Had it been his left side, the fire would have torn through his heart, killing him outright. He spun around and crashed into the control panel, a mass of blood.

She tumbled out the doors in a rage, her weapon firing in every direction. The air surged out; she crashed against the opposite wall as the control room doors slammed shut. Her arms flew up and the gun tore from her hands.

Avon spun over by an acceleration couch, caught a dangling strap with his left arm and pulling himself in. His body was already going into deep shock. He did not yet feel the pain but blood was pouring from him in a red spray all along his right side. He would not dwell on the consequences. With voice and backup control - it would have to do: half the main panel had been destroyed - he could control the starship for as long as he lived.

He strapped himself in with his good arm. There were globs of redness floating all around him. He doubted his arm could be saved. That was the good news.

He summoned the medical emergency programs. Tubes and pressure bands snaked out from the couch and burrowed into his side. Aerosols sprayed to anesticize and prevent infection. He tried to relax, slow his heartbeat.

His vision was blurry and constricted. He was starting to lose consciousness. The smell adding to the stench that was already present was appalling, but it helped keep him awake.

Far worse than losing consciousness was the worry that he would never regain it. With seconds left, he ordered the atmosphere of the control room be returned to standard pressure and all doors sealed in the ship. She might be able to override that, but with luck she would be much too busy to try. He collapsed as the pain began to hammer through his mind. He pressed the intercom button with his good hand.  _Go together on this one_. Now he was the one who could barely breath. The words were dragged out of his throat, hauled up by chains from the depths. "You . . . have (?) seconds . . . get off this ship . . . Not my problem . . . Goodbye." He closed his eyes and a weak smile formed.  _She never was much of a pilot._  He blacked out.

He did not know how long it was before he regained consciousness. Perhaps only a few minutes. Pain was unending, coming and receding like a siren wail. He had to get away. He gave the final order as Lindor swung past. With all his remaining strength, he whispered: "Ignite the drive." Watching with his one good eye, he saw on the one functioning monitor stars beginning to swirl then stream together in a whirlpool and be sucked into the vortex, like the plug of the universe had been pulled. The image steadied him. One way or another, he was on his way to his fate.

 

Servalan fought. For breath, gasping for it, stealing air with a rage, then pleading for more. She felt like she was drowning in heavy syrup, a syrup turning into molten lead burning down her throat and into her lungs. Live for revenge! She forgot the gun. She watched it ricochet down the corridor, impossible to retrieve. Revenge would come another way. She still held the recorder.

She clawed. Along the walls, pulling at anything that resembled a hand hold, cutting her hands, scraping her arms. An image sustained her: Avon had been shot, the arc of lightning slashing down like a sword of damnation. She held that image. It was her power, her vindication. Infinite pain to that man! And how terrible that pain must have been, must be; how good the fire erupting through the control room! She had to survive to tell of it. And for that, she the satisfaction of that hellish image she had to get off this ship.

She steadied herself. Or tried to, but in zero g she was adrift and abandoned of everything that formed a foundation in her life. With the air bleeding out a hundred parts of the ship, a hundred stab wounds there was no time to think. She pushed and pulled and tumbled down the corridor, trying to stop her screaming. Once she thought she heard a voice speak of the ship but the words meant nothing to her. Rage alone would be her salvation. She wanted no one to give her anything else.

Later, she was to realize in all probability it was her screaming that saved her. Unknown to her, Jenna had designed in a myriad of safety features, all with the children in mind. In the event of an emergency, the handful of adults could hardly be expected to assume control over 5000 panicking preteens. So Jenna designed the ship itself to activate the lifecraft and anything else required to save its passengers. Avon could have, would have overridden these features, but Avon near death, fighting to stave off a coma, was in no position to do so. The ship had been programmed to purge its atmosphere, but suddenly it had detected a life and life must be saved. The ship was incapable of rendering judgment on the creature begging for that life.

She crashed into a corner, her breathing in pulses, ever more frequent, more frantic. She was nearing exhaustion even for her great energy. Her throat was dry, her maddened heart racing, her skin like a red blister swelling. And her screams reverberated down the corridor like a damned soul lost forever.

At the far end of the corridor, crossing at right angles to the one she had come down, was a flashing yellow sign. A loud beep was piercing the air. She screamed again, " _Lifecraft!_ " It was panic . . . raw, humiliating panic, but the ship responded. A door began dilating.

She could see it! She took an enormous breath, tried to push off against the wall, and bounced with slapping sounds, like a crazed clown on a trampoline, down to her deliverance.

She was nearing the end of her control and that frightened her far more than death. Weightlessness horrified her. She could never tolerate a state of constant falling, the fear that drove her from the stars the first time. She moaned and wondered if she would ever overcome that fear again.

She closed in on the lifecraft door, a black oval a meter wide gaping at her. There were control lights and seats within, a red blinking circle surrounding the oval. She tried for a straight lunge into the opening. She almost made it. Indeed, a little further over and she would have crashed her head against the side and probably been knocked out cold. But instead she hit her shoulder and heard a crack. In a rage, she thrust out with her other arm, caught the opening with a bloody hand and shrieked as she spun around.

She held with all her strength, then pulled herself in like she had been caught in quicksand. There was air flowing in there, she could hear the hiss, feel it, but she did not risk another breath until she was inside and the iris had closed with a flat thump. Her skin pricked and tingled and her eyes fill with tears. The internal pressures mounted. "Away! There are no more!"

She gulped huge swallows of air, her eyes shut. There was a bang and the acceleration pressed her back. She almost blacked out. It had been that close. She knew her eyes must have burst blood vessels. Her skin felt clammy and sticky and she wanted to tear it off. Even if she could have looked in a mirror, she dared not. Air was flowing; that is all that mattered. She could not get enough of it. Minutes later the acceleration slowed and she collapsed into the couch as great sobs shook her body.

Her eyes opened slightly and she could see fuzzy indicator lights on the control panel. Other than the sound of the ventilation, all was quiet. She was utterly alone in the universe, where aloneness had been a childhood terror. But she had won. Her breathing steadied, returned to normal. Space - here there was only emptiness. Space was Avon's home, not hers.

She activated the distress beacon. She tried calling out, to identify herself to whoever in the Combined Fleet would be listening. But all she could do was cry repeatedly, "He tried to kill me!"

Child of Auron

It was long hours later that the lifecraft was retrieved. After the first frantic hours, she had come close to giving up on being rescued. Had come closer to accepting the finality of this loneliest of deaths. So when the hailing messages of her people finally came in, they went unheeded. The empty stars slowly spun around; her answer was to gradually curled up into a weightless ball. That is how her people found her, floating there as if in embryonic fluid, a demon waiting for a long-delayed birth. They found a face that was a twisted blend of fear and hate; eyes like dying red coals, framed by the unblinking stare of psychosis, yet with an indescribable flickering glow. Some of her rescuers were familiar first hand were her screaming rages; all had heard of them. This unnerved them far more. She could not be moved without her slashing, damning all of existence in fierce whispers for permitting her, them, anything to live. They would wait until the raging subsided then move cautiously back. A mad grin occasionally flashed at them, as if some vast psychic explosion had erupted into her being. Whatever had happened to her, everyone of them silently thought the same unspoken dread: this monstrosity was the true Servalan.

When they finally pulled her out, they could only wonder at what could possibly have happened. Her speech was slurred, incoherent; she trembled, one arm hanging slackly. She kept repeating something about a ship that was alive and a man who should be dead. They could make nothing of it. At this level only a few knew of Avon's escape. They only had orders that the Supreme Commander needed to be returned to her command vessel.

Finally, she gradually regained a measure of coherency. She stopped and in a parody of control only murmured odd phrases that inevitably had the forbidden name of "Avon" in them. By now she was almost understandable. Her breathing returned to normal. But such brought little peace to her people. They could say nothing under penalty of death on the one subject she most wanted to discuss. Once a member of her staff eager to change the subject, told her the conquest of Lindor was complete. She replied only with a question: if they had a good track on Avon's escape? In the stunned silence, he said only that he could not imagine how said individual could be alive. She calmly persisted. Finally, when told, she laughed hysterically when informed where that ship was fleeting. She knew! All along! Heading to Terminal, a mere four hundred lightyears from Earth. Oh, what did she need these fools for anyway?

It was clear recovery might take a while. She had refused all medicines; all painkillers. Alarmed, one of her physicians hit upon the idea of putting her in a room of pure oxygen. For a while it made matters worse much to everyone's terror but eventually exhaustion triumphed and full recovery began. She was moving towards rationality, her version of it anyway. Eventually her people were able to piece together the story of what had happened . . .

Later, alone in her cabin on the  _Nimrod_ , she struggled against depression. Let others accept their fate calmly, even gratefully-never her! All was not lost.

When she emerged days later and returned to the central control room, she gave but one order. Terminal's system had been declared off limits for a distance of five light-years out, an order that went back for years. She told them the planet had become too dangerous. Questions were discouraged, but half her Combined Fleet was now to surround it.  _Avon would not escape._

So gradually the vision of her greatness, the greatness that dominated her life and to which her genius sacrificed everything, returned. She accepted of what had happened. The past was immutable, but in a sense so was the future and in that future Avon would be returning. It was time to get back to work. She had enough of questions and feigned concern from her minions. More of her physicians, and more of her commanders greeted her, saluting smartly, fawning over her. It disgusted her, but she accepted the humiliation. What could they know about anything! Yet as she stormed through the _Nimrod_ , she accepted how vast was her own ignorance of her part in this drama.

 _It is with Li I must talk. She alone would understand_.

Ensconced in her command post, Servalan inquired off hand about the prisoners. She was told that Jenna and Mykal continued to be in critical condition and not expected to recover for months. And the Auron Li? she asked casually. She must not be obvious about this. Li was in better condition, they assured her. There was little else to report. Improved she had been placed under guard and restraint. Her doctors recommended against any interrogation at this time, however. Servalan nodded sagely. Excellent. She would question the prisoner at once.

When the doctors left, she exalted, then hurriedly worked herself up until her face darkened and her eyes glazed. Then she summoned the Special Services guards. "I believe I am once again in sufficiently good humor," she told them. "Take me to that Auron bastard Li."

 

Li had never imagined Servalan as capable of being so agitated. While the Supreme Commander had indeed recovered for the most part, the nightmare of sweat and blood, of hair and clothing torn and disheveled remained in her eyes, black circles now, dug into her white face and ruddy cheeks. For a moment Li had an amusing image of Avon giving Servalan two shiners-in addition to Li's own contribution to the Supreme Commander's appearance. Yet what had happened? Had Avon survived? Li, the complete person that she now was, recalled in her joined memories never having worried about Avon. But whatever had happened between those two must have been horrendous. Death for one was the logical conclusion, a proof that only the most fantastic imagination could deny.

The door sealed behind Servalan and she began without preliminary. "I shot Avon in case you're wondering, but he was alive when I saw him last, so I cannot confirm his death." Surprisingly, she did not sound disappointed. "His ship is in Terminal's system. That is all I know."

 _I doubt that_. But Li, cautiously, remained silent.

"Feeling better, I trust?" Servalan advanced up to her. "So you call yourself 'Li' now. Very well,  _Li_ , you will be happy to know that your sudden if temporary recovery on Lindor caused me considerable grief. Still, I have survived once more." She reached down and put her hand on Li's head, studying her coldly, squeezing hard. "And so clearly have you and your pathetic friends. Want to accompany me on a little stroll? To see your companions, perhaps?" She angrily summoned the guards. They released Li from the bed, but left her hands and feet bound as she was strapped to a carechair. "Come along," Servalan said cheerily and they followed her down the hall, half funeral procession, half victory parade.

Servalan talked brightly as they went. "As soon as we complete our visit to your friends, we will talk alone. May I suggest my command station? A quiet place. We will not be disturbed. You will like it."

The doors flung open and there in opposite transparent tanks were the badly wounded forms of Jenna and Mykal, their faces outside the tanks but their bodies immersed, covered with a network of tubes. Li was prepared, but to see both of them like this was still a shock.  _They survived that?_

Before Servalan said anything more, Li insisted, "Please put me by Mykal, I would like to speak to him."

Servalan smiled, "You mean telesend, don't you? By all means! Say what you will." She snapped, "Let me do you one better. You will literally have a _tete a tete_. Sadly, your feet and hand bounds must remain in place."

Li in the carechair was positioned over the comatose Mykal. She lowered her head upon his, the guards watching her closely. Servalan seemed both tense and bored. "I'm sorry things did not work out between us."  _//Mykal, I know you can't hear me now. Try to remember when you awaken.//_  "I was not good for you, but not much of life is to any of us.  _//There is hope. Avon did escape.//_  "Try to forgive me. I wish you the best. Maybe someday . . ." _//Servalan last saw him alive. He is heading for Terminal. I . . . //_

"Enough! You're entirely too maudlin for my taste," and Servalan had her jerked away and taken back to the Command Center.

 

Li and Servalan, now alone. Li in possession of a single question as an oddly restrained Servalan began her presentation: _did she have a weakness?_  It too began with any fanfare. The meaning was understood to be clear and it was. A black ellipsoid appeared, which grew to become a 3-D representation of the galaxy under Federation control. Waves of white stars spread out, from there star clusters grew. After the clusters, lines like black lightening roots began to shoot through the galactic image. Behind the thin form of the galaxy's ruler-who stared at Li as the image unfolded-it was like watching the root system of a tree spread out in time-lapse photography. The lines spread from the center, jagged dark needles branching through the galaxy, sometimes converging and strangling star systems, sometimes sweeping around them until every point of the galaxy was near one of the lines. Another image that came to Li was that of the translucent wings of a giant insect. But the network of roots was most suggestive.  _This is the tree of death._

Servalan was silent until the projection completed. She did not have to look behind her. She seemed to know its timing perfectly.  _How many times has she shown this?_

"Your doctors will be distressed at me having you here. They  _work_  for me, but do not understand me. And I need to talk to someone who might understand."

_Can she be comprehended?_

"I have an old principle: only to say what must be said to those who must know it, and only when they must know it. I think it is time for 'someone' to know a little. I have a mission, its essence never revealed. A mission that involves humanity yet concerns it only indirectly. Humanity is an instrument to me; it has no other purpose. It will be discarded in due course. Yes, solving the problem of the Auronar is critical to my mission, though contrary to what you might feel, exterminating them is also only a means to an end."

Li blinked.  _What could she possibly mean by that?_  "Then what is?" she asked quietly.

Servalan shrugged. "I could say I want revenge, but that sounds almost trite, does it not? And it truly explains nothing. A better question for you might be not what prompted my implacable desire for revenge, but what granted me the power to implement it? Here is a clue. Do you feel honor or fear by my wanting to keep you alive? It may surprise you, but I would actually regret your death almost as much as Avon's."

"Avon is not dead." Li said defiantly. She did not know if she believed it or not, but it seemed to strike the right note.

Servalan did not rise to the bait. Indeed, she looked almost humbled, her head tilted downward. Li shocked had never seen the gesture. "For once we are in agreement. I do not believe he is dead, either. In fact, I have a vision," she raised her chin, her eyes looking upward as if in prayer, "one both of terrible intensity and maddening obscurity, that he and I will have a final confrontation - and on Terminal. There I will strike him down. That time is not yet, however."

"Am I to be the last Auron?"  _What is she driving at?_

"How Blake's people flatter themselves! No,  _Li_ , but your surmise is close. You will be the next to last."

"I don't understand."

Servalan stormed over and stood over her. Then she shook her with both hands. "Why am I condemned to live in a universe of fools! You never guessed, did you! The thought never crossed your miserable little mind!  _My_  people. With all their vaunting intelligence and learning! At least humans have fewer pretensions, hard as  _that_  is to believe. I hinted at my purpose to Tarrant, yet even he did not grasp my being 'special'." She released Li in disgust. "Why only with Avon can I feel alive!"

She lifted up her arms, raging against the pain. Before the galaxy, as if calling down a curse upon the whole of existence, she shrieked in a comic rhyme of horror.  _"I AM AN AURON, YOU MORON!_."

Relief flickered over Servalan's face as her fury retreated. It was the pleasure of person who had nearly drowned crawling onto the shore. "Why do you think I traveled so many years ago to Auron to reproduce? I  _had_  to have that technology. It is the only way I can reproduce! I am sterile, my birth no different than that of you and your sisters. Do you truly want to know who I am? I am the result of the failed research program, the Time Project, our people now only whisper about. Yes, I was to have been a complete telepath, across all time, and an empath, whose sensitivity would enable me to achieve perfection in all things, even love. I was to have been able to know the past, and foresee the future.  _That_  at least was a partial success. My great talent, if you will, is that sensing of the future, feeling it with my body as much as my mind.

"But in all else . . . what an appalling failure! I have no telepathic, no empathic, abilities. Never whole, never complete, I nearly went mad with loneliness. It was in that state that I had to recreate myself. If not to master love, then to master hate and to revel in it. If not to know then to destroy the past, my past most of all."

( _What a poor sort of memory that only works forwards. She must have never told anyone, not even Avon._ )

"Only in destruction could I know sanity. I became a chameleon, able to blend into other people's perceptions and desires, and with my talent, destroy fools whenever necessary. The great experiment," her arms collapsed, "ended in disaster, but I survived to earn my destiny and to that extent I consider my life a success, and my future still to have promise.

"The future . . . Try as I may, I cannot penetrate the barrier to see in full what that destiny will be. I can never fully trust the future sense, yet it gives me a terrible advantage. I could never have succeeded without it. Will Avon and I die together? Will we love each other, as it should be? All that I know is that it ends, where I see only the two of us, on Terminal.

"Oh, what would you know of destiny?! You and your pathetic romance with that clown Mykal! What a poor substitute for you greatest desire! You want him, but did you ever wonder why I am so drawn to Avon? No doubt another question you never asked; another conclusion you never drew. He is the one man, think of it, a  _human_ , who almost sees through me. I am  _almost_  visible to  _him_. I love Avon because with that insight, partial and fragmented that it is, he can defeat me!  _Dog_  that he is, sometimes a dog knows its master well."

_And can kill her._

"To love Avon is to love my death. Death my being, my meaning. Yet with Avon I can be - no that is not right - I can  _become_  myself. Oh, what do you or he care?" She almost sobbed. "For  _he_  loves  _you_ -do not doubt it for a moment that he does! He has the perfect Auron woman in me, but can never consummate the truth! And in my cowardice, I have never confronted him."

Her breathing steadied, becoming soft, shallow. She seemed relieved, almost at peace. Her body relaxed. "Avon's betrayal, his latest and last, decided the matter. I had to tell my secret, the terror that has haunted me since I fled Auron nearly three decades ago. I had intended the honor of that revelation only for Avon, and only after my mission was complete. But as you are, in a real sense my 'sister,' it is necessary that you know this. The alternative for me is more loneliness than even I can endure. I barely survived out there, and I do not mean physically. Let us both now carry the burden of my identity. Telling you will do as revenge for now."

Her voice turned crisp as she drew back into the galactic image. "As for your immediate fate, you will be returned to Earth with the others, there to be kept in separate underground prisons. You three and the Auron brats will be held until your usefulness is ended. Do not hope for rescue, least of all from Avon. I leave nothing to chance. No one will ever again penetrate the Center to reach Earth. You no doubt recall the history of Blake's Rebellion. You can forget that history. They were lucky; their timing far better than they had any right to deserve. Now, except for Avon, they are all dead. Nothing is less open to the possibility of error than that, though the fact that Avon apparently believes there is a chance Blake is alive intrigues me. Another weakness I may find use for in due course." She suppressed a yawn.

She began to summon the guards, then stopped. She looked at Li brightly, the weariness gone. "Oh, by the way, please feel free to tell my people everything I have told you. As you might suppose, it is rather stressful to serve me. Good people that they are, they need a laugh every now and then." Then she gracefully resumed her seat as the galactic image dissolved. "And no, I won't tell you what I truly want, what my true mission is. That no one would understand."

_So she does have one weakness after all. She does not know when to stop._

 

After the guards took Li from the room, a relieved Servalan returned to the vast array of reports coming in from all sectors, awed by the magnitude of the task before her. How could she possibly manage in the time remaining? Even with her great capacity for work, the nature of the business threatened to overwhelm her.

The conquest of Lindor was complete, a collaborationist government would soon be installed. Of concern, noted in obscure places but clear enough, was that the victory had been costly. Some losses could be covered up, but the knowledge of them would spread. It would inspire some but she saw it as a setback only. Much of Lindor's fleet had escaped, but the Combined Fleet remained a formidable force and it should return to full strength in less than a year. Perhaps her people had underestimated Lindor, but that war was over. The true threat was elsewhere; the evil that had created her lived on. She would complete the work though a thousand Lindors opposed her and the losses a thousand times greater. The goal that had driven her throughout her tortured life would not be denied. It was time to return to Earth.

But first she must contact ORAC. It was strange, that glowing plastic box seemed to be the only thing in the Galaxy she could trust now. While not a true friend, at least it was reliable. ORAC would always be there.  _ORAC, you are all I have left._

"You have been monitoring the flight path of the  _Sword of Auron_?" she inquired.

*Correct. It will near Terminal in approximately two hours... *

"Yes, yes. Despite your penchant for unnecessary detail, it is good to hear you confirm my guesses. And is Terminal now surrounded?"

*Fleets Two, Four, and Six are safely in place five light years out.*

"Excellent. I am coming home. My true work now begins."

The computer did not question her as to what that work might be.  _Have I become so obvious? If so, I may yet be in danger . . . It was a good shot. For anyone else but him, the outcome would not have been in doubt._

She broke the connection and stood. The pain had lessened. She was free again to contemplate, as her fleets swept into the galactic night, the unending burden of her pitiless struggle to become the one good Auron and the last.

 

Between bouts of burning fever, unconsciousness and hideous pain, Avon would glance at the monitor, watching the progress of his ship to Terminal as it cut in and out of twistor drive. The ship's systems were doing well, far better than he. The  _Sword of Auron_  would be with him to the end.

Was it all for nothing? Terminal would certainly be his last sight and the irony of that symmetry to his life did not escape him. He was "terminal" as well. A life as interesting as his deserved an equally intriguing end and so it was to be. Who says there is no God?

So death and Terminal were fusing in the conclusion of his life. Yet there was a part of him that was so arrogant as to presume he could still bring meaning to it. Pointless though much of it was, it had been lived with style. There had been a quality of grace to his genius, at times anyway. Now the puzzle was without hope of resolution. Defiance gave his death dignity and interest but denied him the freedom he craved.

Later, he became aware as he neared Terminal that the symmetry was more complete than he had guessed: his ship was dying with him. Like the _Liberator_ , it was being destroyed, devoured by the space defense mechanism surrounding the planetoid. That annoyed him. Couldn't he have been granted an original  _finis_?

(The molecular clouds roaming Terminal's system had caught his ship like an insect succumbing to amber. The 'clouds,' whatever they were, were in the process of disassembling the vessel atom by atom.)

Accepting his fate - true to form to the end - he watched the disintegration through the scanners dispassionately, as a detached scientist might speculate on the cause of a not particularly interesting phenomenon. Occasionally he wondered as the periods of consciousness became briefer, if the 'clouds' dissolving his ship were a particularly crude application of this "nanotechnology"? Granted, it was certainly a straightforward one, though as a weapon it seemed grossly inefficient. The interplanetary "clouds" would have had to been many in number and enormous and very fast moving indeed to hope to catch something like the  _Sword of Auron._  (Let alone the  _Liberator._ ) Wasn't there a more sophisticated way?

(Perhaps they might have another purpose besides destruction, but his mind, like his body, was weakening too fast to pursue such speculation.)

 

Hours passed and his destination was before him: the rapidly spinning ellipsoid unchanged. Outside scanners, those still functioning, showed his ship with gaping holes and flanges of jagged metal "bleeding" huge metallic flakes. He sealed the control room, disconnecting it from the ship. He would fight to the end. When what was left of the ship entered Terminal's atmosphere, the control room would separate and might last long enough to reach the ground safely. For what it was worth.

He blanked again.

By the time he awoke, he realized the struggle was nearly over. With his sole remaining eye, he saw the walls dripping the stuff. The corrosive slime was devouring the controls, filling the room. Odorless death oozing soft and slow, like lava, like jelly. He had always visualized death as sharp like thorns. This was numbing.

(The stuff flowed from the ceiling, slowly rose over the couch.)

Later, some touched his skin; upward on arms and legs it crawled. He tried to draw back, but his strength was gone. Then a glob drifted over to land on his forehead. He tried to throw his head back, to shake it off, but nothing in his body responded.

Pain vanished. Consciousness dimmed.  _Nothing would remain of the ship, of me._  He caught a last glimpse of the planet as the monitor dissolved under a wave of glop. A desolate whirling surface filled the screen.  _Not much longer. . ._

The stuff filled the room. His vision drowned in total darkness. This was death; certain; without question. Yet as always there did remain a question and . . .

_There was a reply in the inky tide,_

_and the voice came as he died;_

_in the form of a question that one shouldn't fear,_

_in the last moment he could hear_

_in a blinding flash of light:_  Then  _what is life?_


End file.
